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Modern Authorship 

A SERIES OF TEXTS PREPARED AS 
PART OF THE PALMER COURSE 
AND SERVICE IN CREATIVE 
WRITING 



PALMER INSTITUTE OF AUTHORSHIP 
AN INSTITUTION DEDICATED TO DEVELOPING, THROUGH 
EDUCATION, THE POWER OF BEAUTIFUL 
AND FORCEFUL EXPRESSION 

HOLLYWOOD, CALIF. 





Copyright , 1924 , fry 

Palmer Institute of Authorship 

All rights reserved , including that of 
translation into foreign languages , 
including the Scandinavian 



FUNDAMENTALS OF 
CREATIVE WRITING 


By WILLIAM DAVID BALL 

Author of fiction and -photoplays; 
Educator; Editor Screen Writing Division of 
Palmer Institute of Authorship 



PALMER INSTITUTE OF AUTHORSHIP 

HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA 

1924 
















1 






t 







©C1A812181 











ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Sincere thanks are expressed to Frederick 
Stuart Greene and The Metropolitan Maga¬ 
zine for permission to reprint the short- 
story, “The Cat of the Cane-Brake”; to 
Mrs. Katharine Newlin Burt and Cosmo¬ 
politan Magazine for permission to reprint 
the short-story, “The Eagle’s Feather”; and 
to Metro Pictures Corporation and Miss 
Winifred Dunn for permission to print the 
synopsis written from the screen play, “The 
Eagle’s Feather.” 


vii 



CONTENTS 


Introduction ----- Page xv 


PART ONE 

Chapter 

I; The Creative Imagination - Page 1 

The Ultimate Purpose of the Writer—The 
Two Uses of Imagination—The Basic Meth¬ 
od of Developing the Creative Imagina¬ 
tion—Sympathy and Understanding De¬ 
manded of the Writer—Audience Psychol¬ 
ogy, its Importance—Visualization, the Pro¬ 
cess by which Imagination is Directed— 
The Author’s Attitude Toward His Work. 

II. Unity ------ Page 11 

Unity, a Characteristic of all Great Work— 
Its Importance in Creative Writing—The 
Greek Unities: (1) Time, (2) Place, (3) 
Action—Unity Achieved through Selection 
and Arrangement—Determining the Ob¬ 
jective — Significant Material — Discarding 
the Irrelevant—The Principle of Mass— 
The Strategic Positions: (1) the Beginning, 
(2) the End—Emphasizing the Important 
Parts—The Principle of Coherence—Cause 
and Effect—Simplicity—Characteristics of 


IX 



CONTENTS 


Short-Story that Make for Unity The 
Broader Scope of the Novel that Necessi¬ 
tates a Weightier Unity—Action, the Dis¬ 
tinctive Mark of the Screen Story that 
Demands Close Adherence to Principle of 
Coherence. 

III. Characterisation - Page 32 

Living People the Writer’s Source of Mater¬ 
ial — Heredity and Environment — Men’s 
Likenesses and Differences—Typical Traits: 
Racial, National, Occupational—Individual 
Traits—The Traits of Fictional Charac¬ 
ters — Originality—The Four Methods of 
Characterization: (1) by Description, (2) 
by Psychological Analysis, (3) by the Ef¬ 
fect of One Character upon Another, (4) 
by Speech and Action—The Short-Story 
and Screen Story Limited to Brief, Sig¬ 
nificant Detail—Details of Characterization 
that Advance the Plot Action — Novel 
Enjoys Greater Freedom in Use of Detail— 
Objectified Action Necessary in Photoplay- 
Dialogue. 

IV. Drama ------ Page 57 

The Elements of Drama—Conflict—The 
Two Forces: (1) Sympathetic, (2) Antago¬ 
nistic—External Conflict—Internal Conflict 
—The Need for Decisive Outcome of the 
Struggle—Action not Necessarily Violent— ' 
Suspense: Emotional Uncertainty-—Pro¬ 
duced by Intense, Evenly Balanced Conflicl; 
—The Emotions of Hope and Fear—Heroic 
Values: the Soul of Drama—Wealth o 



CONTENTS 


xi 


Heroic Values in Life—Plot: Incident, Situ¬ 
ation, Crisis, Climax, Ending—Handling the 
Plot Elements—Suggested Conflict Used-by 
Fiction Writer to Produce Suspense—Sur¬ 
prise—Screen Writer Confined to Objectified 
Conflict—The Menace to the Sympathetic 
Force — Fore-Knowledge —The Secret of 
Emotional Values. 

V. Motivation - - - - - Page 81 

Action Must be Convincing—Motives, the 
Mainsprings of Action—Cause and Effect— 
Fact and Truth—Life and Art—Motivating 
Action—Human, Appealing Motives Neces¬ 
sary—Probability Further Illustrated—Pre¬ 
paring for the Big Scene or Climax—Sudden 
Conversions: Preparation Necessary—Co¬ 
incidence— Method of Eliminating—The 
Two Methods of Handling Motivation: 
(1) Intensifying the Opposed Motives, (2) 
Equalizing their Power—Close Relationship 
Between Characterization and Motivation 
Motives in Short-Story Must be Boldly 
Outlined—Motives in Novel May be Lei¬ 
surely and Exhaustively Treated—Limita¬ 
tions and Advantages of the Screen—The 
Need for Sympathetic Study of Human 
Nature. 

T. Viewpoint ----- Page 107 
The Position Assumed by Writer with Re¬ 
spect to his Characters—One Best View¬ 
point for Every Story: Determined by Ma¬ 
terial, by Medium, by Effects to be Pro¬ 
duced—The Objective Viewpoint—The Sub- 



CONTENTS 


jective Viewpoint—The Single Angle—The 
Shifting Angle—The Limitations and Ad¬ 
vantages of Each Viewpoint and Angle— 
Events that Need No Explanation—Events 
that are Subjective in Nature—Surprise— 
Suspense—Typical Viewpoints Used in the 
Different Story Forms—Short-Story: Single 
Angle — The Modern Short-Story — The 
Novel: Subjective Treatment, Shifting An¬ 
gle—The Screen Story: Objective Treat¬ 
ment, Shifting Angle—The Difficulty of 
Handling Mystery Stories on Screen. 

VII. Conclusion ----- Page 132 
Resume.—A Word on Modern Stories—A 
Story Must be Salable to Warrant its Ex¬ 
istence—The Writer’s Aim, Not to Amuse 
Himself, but to Give Enjoyment to Others— 
Short Fiction of Today—The Need foi 
Keeping Abreast of the Times—The Oper 
Mind. 


CONTENTS 


xiii 

PART TWO 

The Cat of the Cane-Brake - - Page 141 

(Short-story by Frederick Stuart Greene copy¬ 
right, 1916, by the Metropolitan Magazine 
Co.; copyright, 1917, by Frederick Stuart 
Greene; copyright, 1917, by Small, Maynard 
and Company; copyright, 1924, by Dodd, 
Mead and Company. Published originally 
in The Metropolitan Magazine; reprinted in 
O’Brien’s ‘The Best Short-stories of 1916;” 
reprinted in Blanche Colton Williams’ “Thrice 
Told Tales,” 1924.) 

\nalysis of “The Cat of the Cane-Brake” 

Page 158 

{The Eagle’s Feather - Page 164 

(Short-story by Katharine Newlin Burt, copy¬ 
right by International Magazine Company, 
Inc., 1923, published originally in Cosmopolitan 
Magazine.) 

The Eagle’s Feather - Page 199 

(Synopsis of screen play adapted from the 
short-story by Winifred Dunn, produced by 
Metro Pictures Corporation. Written directly 
from the picture for the purposes of com¬ 
parison and study.) 

- 

Analysis of the Adaptation and Comparison 
with the Short-Story - - - Page 225 




































- - 


































. 

. 




















































. 







. A 





































* 




































































INTRODUCTION 


He who sets out to free his imagination and to 
make it work for him is on the way to the realization 
of his fondest hopes, to the achievement of his high¬ 
est ambitions. All of us have a habit of looking 
upon our ambitions and ideals as goals to be reached 
in some dim future. Much as we desire to reach 
them, we are just a bit doubtful as to whether we 
have the ability or the strength; we continually 
hope for some miracle or happy chance from with¬ 
out to push us onward. "We will begin tomorrow,” 
we tell ourselves firmly, knowing deep down in our 
hearts that when tomorrow comes, we shall make 
the same old promise that is never kept. 

Too seldom do we realize that the miracle must 
come from within, that it is we ourselves who can 
and must make our dreams come true, and that the 
attainment of our greatest desires is as practical 
as the accomplishment of our lesser ones. The prin¬ 
ciple of attainment is identical, whether we face 
one of the minor problems that confront us daily 
or whether we face the vital problem that shall make 
our life-work a success or failure. Desire or necessity 
automatically brings the imagination into play; 
the degree to which one has developed that imagina¬ 
tion determines whether the desire will he realized. 

To the man or woman seeking to develop this 
force that makes for success in life, to the creative 
souls in prison, the Palmer Institute of Authorship 
offers its new Course in Creative Writing. The 


XV 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


methods used in this new Course are the results of 
many years of practical experience and are based 
upon the most modern educational principles. 

The present book, together with the two Problem 
Assignments based on it, forms the foundation 
upon which is built the definite technique that follows 
later in the Course. It is a radical departure from 
the old systems of teaching the art of writing. It 
is an application of the modern science of vocational 
guidance. 

The entire system of educational methods has 
undergone a marked change in the last decade. 
Children are now encouraged to express the individual 
needs of their natures, and under expert guidance 
are allowed to find their work in life. Through the 
child’s expression of his own nature, what is latent 
in him becomes talent. In the old days a boy who 
spent the best part of his time making toy boats 
to sail in the creek behind the schoolhouse, was 
given a hiding. Ten years ago he was called a slug¬ 
gard and a good-for-nothing. Today his desire is 
catered to. A recent newspaper item states that 
fifteen boys in a certain district are building yacht 
models in school to compete in a public regatta. 
Whether the child shows a tendency to work in iron 
molding, to build a bridge, or to raise lettuce, that 
tendency is studied and encouraged. 

Do you want to write? You have already answered 
that question. You do want to write; your desire 
is intense and deep-rooted. But what are you best 
fitted to write? Heretofore, the aspiring writer 
has had no way of knowing, no way of determining, 
his natural aptitude. He has floundered about, 
learning the technique of first one form of writing, 
then another. He has, perhaps, taken up the study 


INTRODUCTION 


XVII 


of the screen to find, after months or years of study, 
that despite his dramatic ability it is impossible for 
him to acquire the screen angle and that his natural 
medium of expression is the short-story, the novel 
; or the magazine article. Each time that he has aban¬ 
doned one field and entered another, he has been 
; forced to set aside much of the technique of the old in 
order to comprehend the new. Sometimes he has blun- 
| deredfinto his proper field; more often he has con¬ 
tinued to flounder, the light of his great desire burn- 
i ing asdorightly as ever within him, but the goal still 
I as far distant as ever because his forces have not 
I been properly directed. This pathetic waste of time 
and energy and hope is now avoidable. Funda¬ 
mentals of Creative Writing , together with the 
first series of Problem Assignments, will answer the 
question: “What are you best fitted to write?” 

The Problem Assignments, also, are a part of mod¬ 
ern methods employed not only by the lower schools 
but by the great institutions of learning and by the 
United States Government. The entrance examina¬ 
tions to colleges and universities, the examinations 
given by the civil service department for positions 
in the postal service, the fire and police departments 
—are series of carefully prepared Problem Assign¬ 
ments. 

Certain elements, certain laws, underlie all forms 
of creative writing. To an extent they underlie 
all the arts—architecture, sculpture, painting, music, 
poetry, literature, drama, and photodrama,—but 
for the purposes of this Course they will be treated 
only in their relation to screen writing and fiction 
writing, with an occasional reference to the other 
arts for illustration. These fundamentals may be 
likened to the tools of the writer, and the object of 



INTRODUCTION 


xviii 

this book is to make him familiar with them and to 
show him their different uses. Just as a chisel and 
a mallet produce different effects as they are put 
into the hands of a carpenter, a stone mason, or a 
machinist, so the fundamentals of creative writing 
must be used in different ways to produce a short- 
story, a novel, or a photoplay. 

To give the beginning writer a basic knowledge 
of both fiction writing and screen writing, and to 
bring his natural talent to the surface, the vital dif¬ 
ference in methods of handling the fundamentals— 
in short-story, novel, and photoplay—is made clear 
by discussion and example. No attempt is made to 
force the writer’s talent. The purpose is simply to 
throw light upon the several roads, one of which he 
is to choose; to show him the difficulties of each, the 
possibilities and advantages of each. He himself 
will choose his road. He may at first be conscious 
of no special preference, or he may prefer the course 
for which he is least fitted. But his work done in 
the Problem Assignments will reveal his natural 
ability and will point unfailingly to the road most 
likely to lead him to success. 

Not until this choice has been made, at the com¬ 
pletion of the first series of Problem Assignments, 
is the writer taught the definite technique of the 
story form he has chosen. The fundamentals of 
creative writing are then treated elaborately and 
fully with relation to one form only—fiction or photo¬ 
play, as the case may be. He is then taught, through 
a second series of Problem Assignments, the specific 
use of his tools as applied to his work. 

It is suggested that the student read first all of the 
material in Part Two—the two short-stories, the 
photoplay synopsis, and the analytical comment. 



INTRODUCTION 


XIX 


“The Cat of the Cane-Brake,” by Frederick Stuart 
Greene, was selected as a typical short-story, one of 
the best that has been written in the past decade 
“The Eagle’s Feather,” by Katharine Newlin Burt, is 
an excellent example of the modern short-story that 
is in large demand by current magazines. In tech¬ 
nique it departs from the typical short-story, and 
borrows from that of the novelette and the screen. 

In the analysis of the adaptation of “The Eagle’s 
Feather,” the story as it appeared in the magazine 
is compared with the screen version; the places 
where the short-story writer used screen technique 
are pointed out, and the places where the screen 
writer was forced to create new material or alter 
purely narrative material are indicated. Part Two 
should be read first chiefly for the enjoyment of the 
stories, with no attempt to puzzle out the finer 
points of technique that may not be clear. At this 
first reading, the analyses should not be studied, 
but should be read merely to get a general conception 
of the basic difference between fiction and screen 
treatment. After the Fundamentals have been thor¬ 
oughly studied, the student should re-read Part Two. 
with careful attention to the analytical comments, 

The study of this volume and the Problem As¬ 
signment work that follows is the foundation of 
your whole future in your progress through either 
the screen writing course or the magazine and novel 
writing work. The more substantial the foundation 
the more certain will be your success. The first 
steps in the study of any art are usually the most 
difficult, yet there is something so fascinating in the 
task of creating stories that no part of the work is 
a burden to the man or woman who seriously desires 
to become an author. 




XX 


INTRODUCTION 


We of the Palmer Institute want you to succeed 
and we shall spare no efforts to help you to do so. 
In return we ask for earnest and persistent striving 
on your part. 


Frederick Palmer. 


Part One 


i 


CHAPTER I 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 

While a book on the fundamentals of creative 
vriting must necessarily confine itself to a discussion 
)f story material and story technique, this first 
hapter will deal with the development of the creative 
magination—without which the writer’s experience, 
Tough it be world-wide, and his technique, though 
t be of the highest order, are valueless. 

It is not intended to give set exercises for the 
levelopment of this faculty. Rather it is intended 
:o stress in our minds the vital importance to the 
vriter of giving serious attention to his imagination, 
md merely to indicate the basic attitude toward 
ife which he must assume if he is to realize the pos¬ 
sibilities that lie dormant within him. 

The ultimate purpose of the writer, whether of 
iction or of photoplay, is to arouse an emotional re¬ 
sponse in others. To accomplish this purpose, he 
nust first be able to reproduce in his imagina- 
:ion the emotions of his characters; and second 
le must be able to imagine just what reaction 
lis work is going to bring forth in others. To attain 
his highly developed use of the imagination re¬ 
tires, on the part of the writer, the most patient 
effort and the highest loyalty to his art. He must 
lave watched people under many and varied con- 
litions, must have made contact with the hates and 
ears and hopes and sorrows of men and women. 

1 




2 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


And, above all, he himself must be able to fee 
intently and vividly the joys and heartaches of thosi 
about him. He must cultivate a large and all 
embracing sympathy. 

The writer who walks through life immersed ir 
his books, who does not want to become interestec 
in people that are not congenial to him, raises ; 
stone wall between himself and life. The scientist 
the abstruse thinker, may do such a thing, but fo 
the artist such an attitude of mind is fatal. To cu 
himself off from life means that he has shut himsel 
off from the source of his material and that he ha: 
doomed his creative powers to decay. To interpre 
life, he must know life, either in fact or through hi: 
imagination. Only a small part of life can be knowr 
in actuality by any one individual, but there is n( 
limit to the knowledge to be derived from the imagi 
nation—not the imagination of the hermit or th< 
recluse, but that of one who sincerely, keenly share: 
the joys and sorrows of his fellowmen. Througl 
sincere sympathy with the trials and pleasures o 
living people, the writer may experience all of life’: 
emotions, may run the scale of human passion am 
feeling from the depths of despair to the heights o 
ecstasy. At his command is the wealth of humai 
experience. The exercise of sympathy frees and de 
velops the creative imagination. 

Let us consider an example, one that may illus 
trate the intimate relation between sympath; 
and the creative imagination. The following ex 
tract is taken from a newspaper report of a murde 
trial: 

“Margaret Willis was found guilty last night 
guilty of murder in the first degree. Only th 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


3 


jury’s recommendation of mercy saved her from 
the gallows. 

“Mrs. Willis lost her fight for liberty with the 
same unbroken calm that has held her since 
the daybreak hour when she walked into the 
police station and announced: 

“ T have killed a man.’ 

“The jurors were convinced from the first 
moment that Mrs. Willis was guilty. There 
was no question of acquittal. It was a vote of 
guilty with the only disagreement on the degree 
of guilt. Her triple plea—that she did not do 
it; that it was done in self-defense; and the 
ingenious ‘sanity defense’ which declared that 
being sane she could not have acted as she did 
if she had just committed the murder;-—failed 
to convince the jurors. 

“Mute evidence—the stained trunk, the pho¬ 
tographs of Dr. Baldwin’s body, the papers that 
set forth the transactions concerning Dr. Bald¬ 
win’s automobile,—played a large part. 

“When the jurors filed into Judge Crail’s 
court, the eyes of Mrs. Willis met them almost 
impersonally, eyes that were tired and reddened, 
but that looked out from a face strangely pre¬ 
possessed and cool. 

“In the long minute while the slip of paper 
was handed to Judge Walton J. Wood, who re¬ 
ceived the verdict; while he read it and the 
crowded courtroom waited in breathless silence; 
the eyes of the accused woman moved slowly 


4 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


from one face in the jurybox to another. She 
continued to look at them fixedly, while the 
clerk’s voice broke the stillness: 

“ ‘We, the jury, find the defendant guilty 
of murder in the first degree.’ 

“Still her face did not change. Not a muscle 
quivered. She looked at the jury as if saying: 
‘You have made a terrible mistake but I am 
a good loser.’ 

“There followed a moment of utter silence 
in the courtroom after the verdict had been 
read,—deep, unbroken silence while the clerk 
recorded the decision.” 

Is there anything in the foregoing account that 
arouses suspense, or pity, or grief, or any of the 
other deeper emotions? Does it possess any possi¬ 
bilities for dramatic development? Let us suppose 
that two men are given this much of the news report 
and asked to add something to it that would be 
dramatic. One is a man who is accustomed to ac¬ 
cepting the evidence as it is presented to him, one 
who believes in facts. The second is a man whose 
imagination has been freed and developed through 
his interest and sympathy with other human beings. 
He has taught himself to look with tolerance upon 
human frailty and weakness, to look with compas¬ 
sion upon suffering and misfortune no matter how 
rightly deserved. 

The first man will see in Margaret Willis a woman 
justly convicted of murder and rightly sentenced 
to life imprisonment—a sentence arrived at by the 
jury without argument and sanctioned by the Judge. 
He will see a woman whose brazen calm in the face 



THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


5 


Df such circumstances stamps her as unwomanly and 
lard-hearted. Possibilities for drama? No. A 
sordid affair; a criminal rightly punished by the 
State. 

But the imagination of the second man will delve 
Deneath the array of facts into the realm of truth. 
Questions and doubts will arise in his mind. Per- 
laps there is a reason for this outward calm. Perhaps 
this stoicism is a mask that hides a suffering much 
more intense than that usually expressed by tears. 
From his knowledge of human nature, he knows 
that no individual is wholly evil, that in the most 
stubborn, depraved character there is a measure of 
^ood, some spot of tenderness, of generosity, of 
Dravery. If he could discover this spot in the char¬ 
acter of Margaret Willis, he would have the basis 
: or drama. Isn’t there someone whom this woman 
oves—or who loves her? . . . Reasoning in this 

: ashion, it is only a question of a little more effort, 
and the imagination of this second man will create 
dramatic material. 

Let us now continue the newspaper story, which 
relates what actually occurred after the moment 
mf silence during which Margaret Willis calmly 
received the sentence of life-imprisonment. 

“Beside her, clinging to her arm with a 
frenzied grip, was ‘Sonny,’ the little boy who 
will not yet believe that his mother is guilty. 
The boyishness was gone from his face, utterly 
wiped out in bitter tragedy. Lips quivering 
in spite of his manful efforts to keep them still, 
he turned his face up to hers, a face that was 
eloquent with passionate questioning. 

“Abruptly a shudder passed through the 
woman’s body. For an instant the mask dropped 



6 


' THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


from the impassive, self-possessed features and 
into the tired eyes swept a sudden, fierce yearn¬ 
ing. She leaned down quickly and pressed him 
close in her arms. 

“ ‘Don’t worry, Sonny,’ she whispered. ‘It’s 
all right. Don’t worry.’ 

“But Sonny, trying hard to be brave, hid 
his face in the bosom of the mother who was 
going away from him for all her life, and sobbed.” 

Is there anything here to touch the feelings or 
to bring something tight into the throat? And the 
point of this illustration is that the second man, if 
given technique, could write something equally, 
or more, dramatic. 

As the writer grows in the power to give to his 
characters emotions that are poignant and true to 
life, this same imaginative power will enable him to 
foresee and mold the reactions of the reader of his 
short-story or the spectator of his photoplay. 

A word here in regard to the audience, considered 
purely in relation to the photoplay, is in order. 
A theatre crowd is composed of individuals whose 
instinctive traits—that is to say, both their base 
and their noble emotions—are for the moment em¬ 
phasized. A crowd is dominated and swayed by 
its emotions. It is more easily led and influenced 
than the individual; it is more easily aroused tc 
anger, pity, hate, tears, or laughter. The writer 
should study the motives behind the actions of in¬ 
dividual people, and the emotions that have given 
rise to the motives; then, if he will study crowds, 
at the theatre, the prize-fight, a base-ball game j 
he will see these same instincts and elemental emo¬ 
tions come to the surface intensified and heightened 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


7 


The study of the emotional reactions of crowds, 
Decially theatre crowds, is known as audience 
^chology. The term may also be applied to the 
idy of the fiction reader’s reactions, although these 
ictions will be those of an individual, and not of a 
)wd. The writer who gives consideration to the 
lotions his short-story or novel will call forth, is 
ng much the same kind of psychology that the 
jimatist or screen writer uses. (For our purposes, 
may use the word “audience” in a broad sense 
include the reader of fiction and the spectator of 
•een plays.) 

The study of audience psychology has been prac- 
ed by every successful writer to some extent. 
Le genius does it naturally and without conscious 
ort; he seems to have instinctive knowledge of 
3 reactions his work will produce in others. Those 
lesser talent must study the .subject consciously, 
id the extent to which they give it careful and 
ious attention will have a marked effect upon the 
^ree of success they achieve. • 

Here is a simple illustration of the author’s need 
study his audience: A young writer brought 
a successful author the manuscript of an excellent 
:>rt-story that was eventually sold to a good mag- 
.ne. The story as it stood was dramatic, with the 
ncipal character showing unusual courage in the 
:e of trying circumstances and performing in the 
max an appealing, heroic act. Among several 
ws in the story one stood out glaringly. The hero, 
lile struggling bravely against the odds confront- 
r him, felt sorry for himself; and while performing 
; heroic act did so, very apparently, with the full 
owledge that he was doing an admirable thing. 

[ the drama in the story was rendered ineffective 
this martyr-like attitude. The reader’s emotions 



THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


were checked, repressed, and the story fell fl; 
The writer, striving to arouse the deepest liki 
and admiration for his hero, had not considered t 
reader’s reactions to this particular trait of chc 
acter. He had not recognized one of the laws 
audience psychology—or of human nature—th 
people do not like a hero who is conscious of his o\ 
heroism. 

Let us remember, then, that the basic meth< 
of developing the creative imagination is throu^ 
manifesting a sincere interest in life and an inten 
sympathy with people. The process by which t3 
imagination is directed during the actual work 
creating a story is called visualization. 

Visualization is seeing a mental image of t] 
thing, idea, or concept that you wish to put in 
words or other form of expression. It is obvio 
that he who can see his characters, his setting, ai 
his action most clearly and vividly has the greate 
chance of transferring what he sees to the minds 
others and of producing the effects he wishes 
produce. It is here that a training in screen writii 
proves of immeasurable value, irrespective of t: 
particular field of story writing one intends to entc 

For the photodramatist must be, above everythii 
else, eye-minded. He must see his story valu( 
his characterization, his drama, in terms of actio 
He must see them just as clearly in his mind’s e 
as the spectator will later see them on the silv 
sheet. It is a part of his training to ‘Think in pi 
tures.” 

On the other hand, the writer of fiction must 
able to visualize just as clearly, just as accurate; 
as the photoplay writer, although his material nen 



THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 9 

t be translated into terms of action. His char¬ 
ters must be just as vivid to his mind’s eye and his 
:ion just as clear-cut, as the same material to the 
een writer. In addition, he must imagine shades 
meaning and subtleties that the photoplay writer 
mot use. 

the important faculty of visualization can be, 
list be, cultivated by practice. Upon its use de- 
ids whether or not one can control his imagina- 
jn. The imagination itself may bring to us pic¬ 
es of wondrous beauty, detached fragments that 
y contain great possibilities for drama, but unless 
direct and control our mental images with purpose 
1 end in view, they are ineffective and worthless. 

Day-dreaming, for example, is rarely productive. 

\ visualize clearly, but without other purpose than 
• own satisfaction. In fancy we go through what 
would do if we were rich, if we were beautiful, 
^e were famous; we see ourselves as noted writers 
actors or statesmen, receiving the adulation of 
public. All our faculties are centered in deriving 
asure from our mental images; the center of the 
verse has become self. 

3ut the satisfaction that comes to the true artist 
*ing his creative moments is always secondary, 
uses and directs his faculty of visualization with 
end in view of expression. His purpose is to 
>ress what he has seen in the wonderland of his 
igination, not primarily for his own satisfaction, 

; in order that he may give pleasure to others. 

The man who writes with the sole aim of getting 
at he can out of it will find himself handicapped, 
will seem to him that all things conspire together 
olock his progress and to fill his path with thorns. 



10 


THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 


He may eventually succeed after a fashion, but 
will never know the true meaning of success. It is 
writing, just as it is in life. The man who is actuat 
by the desire to give as well as to receive, will ft 
the gifts of life coming to him without his askir 
will find that there is no limit to the growth a: 
development of his creative powers. 



CHAPTER II 


UNITY 

The first of the fundamentals we shall consider is 
Jnity. A story that does not possess unity, 
o matter how good the material in that story, fails 
o take advantage of its possibilities and falls below 
he standard of excellence it might otherwise reach, 
n this chapter we shall try first to explain as clearly 
s possible what is meant by unity; second, to show 
he various methods by which the writer obtains 
mity; and third, to discuss these different methods 
a their application to the short-story, the novel, 
.nd the photoplay. 

Unity is the grouping of all the parts around one 
entral idea or effect. It is the driving of all the 
orces toward one goal or purpose. It is a law under¬ 
ling all great work. Not everything that has unity 
3 art, but all real art has the quality of unity. 

To illustrate the central idea or purpose we may 
onsider a man about to take a railway trip. His 
entral idea is to get from a small town to a large 
ity. He may take the accommodation train that 
tops at every station for eggs, milk, and other farm 
>roduce—a train that half way through the journey 
3 side-tracked for an hour to let the limited go by. 
)r he may take that limited in the small town from 
diich he starts, the fast mail that drives straight 


11 


12 


UNITY 


through without stops to its destination in the bij 
city. In the first instance his journey would b< 
interrupted by action and incidents that had n< 
connection with his own particular goal. In thi 
second, his journey might be said to have unity. 

Another simple example will illustrate the drivini 
of forces toward one goal. A man in a motorboa 
is in the center of a circular lake across which sweep 
a heavy wind. The man’s purpose is to arrive a 
the shore in the shortest time possible. Two force: 
are at his command—his motor and the wind. T< 
achieve his purpose he will handle his motor to th< 
best of his ability, and he will steer a course with th< 
wind at his back. In other words, he will unif m 
the two forces to achieve his particular* purpose. 

We have already seen that the ultimate purpos 
of the creative writer is to produce emotional re 
sponse in others. He must plan and arrange hi 
material according to a definite pattern, and he mus 
ruthlessly discard everything that hinders his prc 
gress. The more intense the emotion he can arouse 
the greater will be his art. He may produce effect 
of moderate strength, even though he works in 
slovenly manner, simply because his material is i 
itself good. There may be flashes of drama, touche 
of human interest, bits of suspense, but unless thes 
forces are unified their effectiveness is “scattered, 
and a story that might have been great becomes med 
ocre. 

The old Greek unities of time, place, and actioi 
rigidly adhered to by the French classical schoc* 
require that the action of a play take place in or 
setting, within twenty-four hours, and with no a< 
tion that is irrelevant to the plot. Of these thre 



UNITY 


13 


he first two have lost much of their importance; 
he third, however, has survived intact through the 
hanging methods of technique down to the present 
ime. The old unity of action was a fundamental 
iw of dramatic art that is as true today as it was 
1 ancient times. Applied strictly to drama, it fits 
recisely into our broader definition of unity as 
llpplied to all creative writing. 

The unities of time and place, in their limited 
leanings, have been discarded. To compress the 
ction of every stage play or photodrama into 
'wenty-four hours, and to limit the locale to one 
etting, would be considered absurd by the modern 
ramatist. It is obvious, also, that to place such 
mits upon the novelist would be folly. And yet 
hese unities of time and place have a certain bearing 
pon all creative writing. The action of any story 
hould be confined within as brief a time and as 
mited an area as is consistent with the effect to 
,»e produced. In other words, reasonable compres- 
ion of time and limitation of locale help to produce 
hat unity of effect or impression which is of para- 
nount importance. 

How is this greatly desired fundamental of unity 
o be achieved? How does a writer succeed in ‘‘group- 
tig all the parts around one central idea or effect?” 
Unity is achieved through careful selection and arrange- 
k lent of significant material. 

In order to know what is significant and what is 
[•relevant the writer must first determine just what 
he goal of his story is to be. The goal in this in- 
tance does not mean the emotional response which 
3 the writer’s ultimate purpose, but the concrete 
ction or change in the lives of the characters that 




14 


UNITY 


produces that response. A character wants some 
thing, or wishes to accomplish some purpose, or i 
under the necessity of acting contrary to his de 
sires—in a word, he is confronted by some human 
appealing problem. The solution of that problem 
whether satisfactory or not, is the goal or the ob 
jective of the story. 

The objective is so closely related to the clima; 
that for this particular purpose of achieving unit 
the two may be considered synonymous. A write 
may occasionally start from the beginning and wor 
forward, logically but blindly, to the climax, with 
out knowing what that climax is to be until he get: 
to it. The chances are, however, that his story wi 
lack unity unless he goes back over his work to re 
build and alter his structure. Although the inc: 
dents in the body of the story may already be se 
down in tentative fashion, he must know definitel! 
what his climax is to be before he can use thos 
incidents to the best advantage. It can be safel 
assumed that in nearly all successful stories the authc 
knows fairly early just what the outcome is goin 
to be. Until he has his climax he doesn’t conside 
that he has a story. The first consideration of tb 
writer then is to determine clearly in his own min 
the story objective. 

After he has fixed upon the objective, the proce*’ 
of “selecting the significant” begins; a process coi 
sisting largely of weighing each incident, each b 
of characterization, to determine its bearing upon tf 
outcome. If it is irrelevant, it is discarded or changec 
This process may occur, consciously with the beginnt 
and automatically with the expert craftsman, i 



UNITY 


15 


tie actual writing of the story, or it may be employed 
fter the first draft of the story has been written. 

The example usually given to illustrate irrelevant 
laterial is the funny story or personal experience 
ild by a man who delays the ‘'point’' by dragging 
1 numerous unimportant details and by introducing 
icidents or facts that have nothing to do with the 
:ory itself. He stops to argue with himself whether 
! was on Friday or Saturday that the event occurred, 
hen it doesn’t matter a continental what day it 
jas or whether it was day or night. He dilates, 
erhaps, on the exact location, on his own personal 
fipressions of the weather at the time, or on Heaven 
pows what that doesn’t concern itself with the story 
i wants to tell. This is irrelevant material. If 
iu have ever listened to such a story you will re- 
ember your impatience, and you will recall, most 
^obably, that the *‘point”, when it did come, was 
it and not at all humorous. This impatience on 
iur part, and your failure to appreciate the story 
irrespond to the reaction of the spectator or the 
:ader when meeting irrelevant material. 

The second consideration then, of the writer 
ho wishes his work to possess unity, is to test the 
ilevancy of his material. He must continually 
>k himself the question: “Does this affect in any 
ay the outcome of the story?” The degree to which 
will affect the outcome determines its part in the 
lity of that story. 

The third consideration has to do with “arranging 
le significant.” The writer, having determined 
hat his effect is to be, and having selected the par- 
cular incidents, characterization, and atmosphere 
lat will bring about that effect, must arrange his 



16 


UNITY 


material in a definite pattern. His pattern will var 
according to the story-form he is using, but all pat 
terns follow two underlying principles—the principl 
of Mass and the principle of Coherence. 

The principle of Mass requires that the importan 
parts of a story be given prominence through placm 
them in strategic positions and through treating ther 
with emphasis. 

Because of the psychological fact that the firs 
and last parts of a story are the ones most like! 
to impress the mind and leave a lasting impressior 
it follows that the most strategic or prominent pc 
sitions in a story are the beginning and the end. T 
arouse interest, curiosity, and suspense, to make tr 
reader or spectator want to know the rest of the stor 
the writer must begin, not with commonplace ui 
important details, but with material that will catc 
the eye and the imagination. He must promi: 
something big in the way of entertainment. 1 
order to satisfy that interest and suspense, he mu 
place the most important and significant part (tl 
climax) at the end. As a rule, the climax is not tl 
actual close of the story, but it comes very near tl; 
close. What follows should be so closely relate 
that it can be regarded logically as the immedia 
and final outgrowth of the climax. 

As an example of a beginning that arouses interer 
consider the following from “The Red Mark, 
short story by John Russell, published original 
in Collier's and reprinted in “Where the Paveme, 
Ends”: 

“Even now nobody can tell his name, thou 
doubtless it was a grand and a proud one. P 
haps you could find it in the files of the Bordea ( 


UNITY 


17 


press twenty years ago, when they sentenced 
him to transportation for life for five proved 
murders. Since then it has been officially for¬ 
gotten. But the man himself has lived on. He 
lives and he continues to develop his capabili¬ 
ties—as we are all expected to do here in New 
Caledonia.” 

(The second paragraph describes the convict 
colony, “a sort of infected rubbishbox, the sweep¬ 
ings of the prisons,” where this murderer has 
risen above all the other eight thousand felons 
who hate and fear him, to hold a government 
post.) 

“He is the executioner. He operates the 
guillotine. Not for any pay or profit nor for 
the rank it gives him; but from choice. It is 
his capability! It is the thing he likes to do.” 

For a short-story the foregoing is an admirable 
eginning. If the author had been writing a novel 
r a photoplay he would, of course, have cast his 
laterial into different form. In the novel the events 
id incidents he now merely suggests would have 
sen elaborated in detail; the story might even have 
egun in Bordeaux twenty years before the present 
pening. It must not be supposed, however, that 
novel may begin anywhere and at any time with- 
irt regard to the story that is to be told. A fine 
isregard of the principle of Mass in novel writing 
found in the works of many of the old novelists— 
ir Walter Scott, for instance, who had a deplorable 
abit of prefacing whatever of interest he had to 
ly with countless pages of nothing. On the other 
and, if the author of “The Red Mark” had been 
riting a photoplay he would have devised his 


18 


UNITY 


opening scenes with the purpose of introducing 1: 
characters and their relations to each other, and wii 
the purpose of establishing as soon as possible tl 
locale, the atmosphere, and the story problem of son 
sympathetic character. 

The second strategic position, the ending, nee< 
little argument to prove its importance. A wee 
beginning is bad, but a weak ending is fatal. 1 
other words, assuming that you have succeeded : 
getting a weak story published or produced, eve 
though you do not promise much in the beginnin; 
it is just possible that your reader may read c 
because he hasn’t anything else at hand, or yoi 
spectator may continue to look at the screen b< 
cause he has paid out his hard-earned money an 
hangs on in hope that something of interest may tur 
up. But in general if your audience has followe 
your story through it is because of the promise yc 
have made it in the beginning. If you fail 1 
keep that promise, you will arouse only disappoin 
ment and resentment. Also, assuming that we ha^ 
an effective climax, remember that to carry tl 
story on after it has logically ended is like explainir 
a joke. The writer, as well as the talker, must lear 
to know when to stop. 

To go back to our principle of Mass, the secor 
requirement is that the important parts of the stoi 
be treated with emphasis. For example, a dramat 
event of great significance should be given mo 
space in the whole, than a simple incident used 
lead up to that event; a regeneration in charact 
should have more emphatic attention than a rel 
tively minor trait in characterization; a fact in se 
ting or atmosphere that profoundly affects the sto 
should have greater space devoted to it than a det; 


UNITY 


19 


f weather or landscape. The amount of space or 
mphasis given to each part is determined by its 
elative importance to the other parts. 

Coherence, the second principle that works in the 
xrangement of the significant to produce Unity, 
lemands that the relation of each part to the other 
>arts shall be unmistakable. In simple words, it 
neans that if a story is to run smoothly without con- 
using the audience or causing them to wonder what 
t’s all about, each part should grow logically out 
)f the part preceding and should lead into the one 
allowing. Coherence is closely related to Motiva- 
|ion, which will be treated in a later chapter. 

Closely allied to the law of Unity is the element 
if simplicity. All great art has something of this 
lement in it, a quality that makes it go straight to 
'he heart of things, to reveal phases of beauty and 
if life that we sensed before but could not see clearly, 
because of their simplicity the works of the masters 
ippeal to the man in the streets as well as to the 
Lighly educated man. The involved, the intricate, 
he complex, may indicate the brilliance and the 
leverness of the artist, but they also prove that he 
las nothing to do with greatness. 

It will be well now to consider Unity as a whole 
pplied to concrete examples of the different forms 
>f story writing. 

In the short-story the law of unity can be seen 
nore easily than ip any of the other forms. The 
hort-story concerns itself with one situation or 
triking event, with one predominant character, 
md produces a single powerful effect. Its chief 
haracteristic is oneness. This is not a definition; 
t is merely a pointing out of distinctive qualities 




20 


UNITY 


inherent in the short-story that give marked unit 
to this form of writing. The short-story writer intrc 
duces no character, allows no incident to enter 
employs no word—that does not bear vitally an< 
unmistakably upon the outcome, or that hinder 
the forward movement of the story. 

Below is a brief synopsis of the short-story, “The; 
Grind Exceeding Small/’ by Ben Ames Williams 
published originally in The Saturday Evening Post 
Sept. 13, 1919, and reprinted in the O. Henry “Priz< 
Stories for 1919.” 

Hazen Kinch is a grasping, stone-heartec 
money lender, hated by everyone in the country 
side. There is but one spot of affection in hi: 
cruel, avaricious nature, and that is reservec 
for his two-year old deformed boy baby. 

Hazen is detained in town overnight by c 
snowstorm. To his small, bare office comei 
Doan Marshey, a neighboring farmer, over 
worked, broken-spirited, to pay what he car 
of the interest on the mortgage held by th( 
money lender. Hazen upbraids him vehemently 
for his inability to pay the whole of the interest 
In drawing out the eleven dollars and fifty 
cents, which Marshey claims is all he has, ar 
extra dollar bill drops from the cloth pouch 
Hazen slyly covers it with his hand and pocket 
it. 

The farmer leaves, but returns looking fo 
his lost dollar. Hazen scoffs and accuse 
Marshey of lying. 

“It was to git medicine,” explains Marshe;; 
weakly. “It wa’n’t mine.” 

Hazen becomes angry and orders the man out 


UNITY 


21 


Marshey after searching vainly in the snow 
for his dollar bill, tries to get the medicine from 
the druggist who refuses him credit. 

The next morning Hazen starts for home, 
eager to see his boy. As he enters the house, 
his wife rises stiffly from the bed and faces 
him. “The boy is dead,” she says tonelessly. 

Hazen Kinch goes white as death. He stands 
dumbly, unable to comprehend. The woman 
goes on to explain.—The boy had coughed. 
She had asked Hazen several days before to 
bring medicine; he had laughed, saying there 
was no need. She had gone yesterday to Annie 
Marshey, who said that her husband was going 
to town and would get the medicine. She had 
given Annie a dollar bill. But Marshey had 
come back without the medicine. 

Hazen Kinch understands. His body bends 
backward like that of a man convulsed with 
agony. His mouth opens wide. He screams. 

The foregoing brief synopsis shows plainly the 
mity of the story structure. Every incident helps 
o make effective the big moment or climax, when 
iazen Kinch realizes that he himself is the cause of 
lis boy’s death. One does not get, in the brief 
rynopsis, the full emotional value of the lesser 
fflepts, the cumulative force of which is the real 
ecret of the power in the climax. Many of these 
esser effects must be suggested in general terms or 
>mitted altogether. 

It is stated, for instance, that Hazen Kinch is a 
grasping, hard-hearted money lender. In the story 
tself the author makes this characterization real 



22 


UNITY 


to the reader by concrete incidents. As examples 
Hazen uses the telephone in the store below hi 
office; this is one of his small economies. He treat 
his wife as a servant; it is rumored that he took he 
in payment of a bad debt. He viciously twists th 
ear of his mare and strikes her with his heavy whij 
when she stumbles off the road. The reason h 
accepts part payment from Marshey and does no 
foreclose is that Marshey’s farm is worthless. Hi 
has lent money to a woman whose husband wa 
killed, and later has taken her farm when she couk 
not pay. When he is detained in town overnight 
he curses because the wires are down; he wants t< 
telephone to his house, not to relieve his wife’i 
anxiety, but to ask about his boy. His despicabli 
act in stealing Marshey’s dollar that was meant fo 
medicine is the culmination of the money lender*! 
meanness.—All this is significant material selectee 
and arranged by the author with the deliberat< 
intent to build up to his climax. 

In the preceding paragraph the incidents charac 
terizing Hazen Kinch have been given equal em 
phasis, with no attempt to arrange them; the purpose 
was merely to enumerate. But in the story they ar< 
emphasized with careful regard to the principle o 
Mass. The incident of the stealing of the dolla 
bill, for example, is given marked emphasis througl 
relatively elaborate treatment, while the inciden 
of Hazen’s taking the widow’s farm is handled ver 
briefly. The first concerns the outcome of the stor; 
much more vitally than the second. 

When we come to the novel, which may deal wit 
innumerable characters, which may cover severs} 
generations, and which may shift its scenes to in 
elude the four quarters of the globe, it would seer} 


UNITY 


23 


lat this story form has little to do with the law of 
nity. And yet the novel does have a unity that is 
; distinctive as that which belongs to the short- 
ory. The short-story sees one phase of life intently 
id steadily; the treatment is thus intensive, strik- 
.g, and rapid, and the unity is marked. The novel 
;es life with a more extensive vision and moves to 
slower rhythm; its unity is weightier and less ap- 
irent. 

As a rule, the greater the scope of a book, the more 
ifficult it is for the author to achieve unity, and the 
tore impressive that unity will become if he does 
:hieve it. Thomas Carlyle’s “Frederick the Great” 
an example of an historical work with broad scope 
nd splendid unity. It consists of twenty-one dis- 
nct books bound in an number of volumes—about 
iree thousand pages of close print. It treats of 
ist about everything that occurred in Europe during 
le first three quarters of the eighteenth century, 
ut from the apparently heterogeneous mass of sol- 
iers, statesmen, peasants, wars, court scandals, in- 
ustrial revolutions, tobacco parliaments, and what 
3t, there emerges one powerful figure—Frederick 
le Great, with his iron hand firmly grasping the 
tins that controlled civilized Europe. 

In novels where action and plot predominate it 
fairly easy to see the unity—or the lack of it. But 
ith novels in which characterization is stressed it 
more difficult. To this second class belongs Willa 
ather’s novel, “One of Ours,” The effect produced 
y its unity is powerful. The greater part of the 
Dok has for its locale a Nebraska farm; the final 
:enes are on a battle-field in France during the 
/orld War. In the shifting maze of characters, 
cidents, psychological reactions and impressions, 



24 


UNITY 


one dominant character stands out clearly—Claud' 
Wheeler, the introspective, intelligent, dissatishe 
farmer lad who cannot find his place in life. 


Before we consider unity as it applies to the photo 
play, let us look at the outstanding characterise 
of the screen story that distinguishes it from fiction^ 
a distinction that must be clearly understood 11 
order to discuss intelligently the application of art 
fundamental to the two different forms of writing 


The screen writer must tell his story in terms I 
action; and when we say this we mean that hi 
material must be in such form that it can be readi 
photographed. Stories that do not lend themselve 
to screen treatment are termed in studio parlanc 
“narrative.” To give a crude but simple exampl< 
I can tell how hungry a man is by using sever: 
pages describing exactly how he felt and what 
thought about it, how many hours since he la: 
tasted food, the nature of the reaction upon his bod 
and upon his mind, etc., etc. Or I can state that I 
stood avidly gazing into a bakery window, ham 
thrust deep into trouser pockets. I can tell how h 
twitching hands turned the empty pockets insi< 
out. I can show him turning away dejectedly at 
suddenly darting forward to snatch up an orange 
banana someone had thrown away. In both instanc 
I wish to convey to others the idea that this man 
suffering from hunger. In the first I do it by ni 
rative’’ methods, in the second I give material th 
can be caught by the camera. 

As a general rule, when I put into my story wb 
one character says, when I tell what a characr 
thinks, or when I describe how a character feels, 
I am using material that is narrative in nature a 



UNITY 


25 


at has no screen value unless it can be objectified. 
y objectified is meant translated into action. 
Dialogue, of course, is thrown on the screen in the 
rm of subtitles, but the subtitles in a picture must 
i limited in number. It is impossible to write an 
teresting detailed synopsis without using some 
irrative material; the point is that such material 
ust be kept down to a very low minimum. The 
lotodramatist does not describe the thoughts and 
elings of his characters; he lets them express them- 
Ives through their own actions. 

The short-story writer and the novelist, however, 
puld be lost were they limited in their use of dia¬ 
gue, description, and psychological analysis of 
ought and emotion. Some of the best stories, even 
lough they may be dramatic, have achieved their 
fects through the use of these three important 
ols of the fiction writer. The remarkable short- 
ory “Markheim,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, is 
i excellent example of effects produced chiefly 
rough psychological analysis. It has no screen 
due because it deals so largely with thoughts and 
notions too subtle to be objectified. 

This basic difference will appear frequently, and 
various aspects, in the following chapters. For 
e present it is enough to keep in mind that in the 
lotoplay the tools of writing (the fundamentals) 
e limited in their use to the extent that they must 
oduce material that can be photographed. 

Unity in a photoplay means that a certain group 
characters must start from a given premise or 
ory problem and move through certain organized 
tion of cause and effect to a final solution of the 
oblem. The following brief synopsis of “Tol’able 
avid,” produced by Inspiration Pictures, adapted 



26 


UNITY 


from the short-story by Joseph Hergesheimer, i 
lustrates the unity of action for which screen writei 
must strive. 

In the mountain country of West Virgini; 
where the code of the feud has for years bee 
bred into the blood of its people, live the Kim 
mon family—Hunter Kinemon, who has a wea 
heart, his wife, their elder son Allen, and Davi< 
a boy in his teens. 

David is born to struggle. He believes i 
himself, but he cannot convince others. H 
one ambition is to become a man. But to othe 
he is immature; he is just “Tol’able David.” 

The atmosphere of the home is kindly. Alle; 
the older brother, is regarded as the “flower < 
the family.” He is looked upon as the stronge 
man in the community—a confident fellow i 
twenty-one years. \ 

The Hatburns, an old man, and his daughte 
Esther, live nearby. David and Esther a 
sweethearts. 

Three relatives of the Hatburns arrive 
the old man’s cabin and claim shelter. They a 
hiding out as the result of some deadly affi 
in another county. Kindly Grandfather He 
burn impotent!y rebels against the necessity, 
abiding by the unwritten law of the land whi 
demands that a man give shelter to a relati 
under any circumstance. But he has little choi( 
the criminal Hatburns take possession of t 
cabin. Their leering eyes fall upon Esther. O 
of them is a half-wit. Despite the prese 
danger of their position, they have little co 
mand over their evil natures. 

Allen Kinemon is the stage driver and carr 
of the Government mail. To the simple moi 


UNITY 


27 


tain people this is a trust of much consequence. 
Indeed, it is David’s ambition that some day 
he may be a stage driver. One day the stage 
passes the Hatburn cabin, and an incident 
swiftly develops into tragic consequences. Allen’s 
dog runs up to the feudists. One of them kills 
the dog. Allen leaves the stage, and approaches 
them with the idea of immediate retaliation; 
then he remembers his trust, the Government 
mail. As he starts back to the stage, a Hatburn 
throws a stone which hits Allen in the back and 
cripples him for life. 

Thus, in the Kinemon home a blow has fallen, 
unforeseen and unspeakably appalling, since the 
family pride has been the strength and vigor 
of the eldest son. The unwritten law of the feud 
requires that Hunter Kinemon shall take down 
his rifle and start for the Hatburn cabin. But 
his emotions have been too much for his weak 
heart—he suddenly dies. 

The boy David suddenly crosses the line 
between youth and the stern responsibilities of 
manhood. He is determined to carry out his 
father’s intention. He is moving away with his 
rifle, when the mother makes her claim. She 
believes that her boy will be killed in the event 
of his carrying on the feud; in any case, she will 
be bereft of her only means of support and pro¬ 
tection. 

The crisis passes, and David has yielded to 
his mother’s plea. He now faces the contempt 
of the men and women, the boys and girls, with 
whom he has passed all the years of his life. 
For to them honor demands killing with no 
thought to consequences. Aside from his 


28 


UNITY 


mother’s love there is nothing to relieve th 
weight of his burden. And secretly this i 
heavier than the others know, since the attai 
creates a natural gulf between him and Esthei 
Her heart also is torn by conflict of emotions 

He gets a job in the grocery store. He apphe 
for the position of stage driver, but is refusec 
until an emergency occurs by reason of th 
regular stage driver s drunkenness. 

So David finds himself on the driver’s sea: 
It is a great hour in his life, though it is marre 
somewhat by the covert amusement of the or 
lookers. He drives the thirty miles to the htt 
town that marks the railway terminus. . It 
cold and wet as he starts on the return trip an 
the straps used to tie on the precious mail ba£ 
are slippery and hard to handle. 

At the end of a rough stretch of road that h; 
led past the Hatburn cabin, David stops 1 
make sure of the mail bags, and discovers th< 
one of them has been lost. In his eyes this 
a calamity. He has failed in his trust. Car 
fully, but without results, he goes back ov 
the rough piece of road. Then the convictic 
seizes him that the mail bag has been pick( 
up by one of the Hatburns. 

He goes to the Hatburn cabin where he fin 
the lost mail bag on the floor. The Hatburns a 
insolent and amused. From their viewpoi 
David has shown himself not worth considerii 
as an enemy. They do not comprehend 1 
ideal of serving the government and protect! 
the mail. It is now David's duty to fight. 

A terrific battle ensues, with David maul 
and beaten by the overwhelming odds. He 



UNITY 


29 


pounded to the floor, he is flung bodily through 
the air to crash against the log walls,—but he 
comes back doggedly to the fight. 

Esther flees to the village for help. Despite 
circumstances, her heart is all with the boy 
she loves, who is now battling against such 
terrible odds. 

David, victorious but wounded, staggers out 
with the mail bag, places it on the stage, and 
starts his team. Thus he is found by the res¬ 
cuers brought from the village by Esther. He 
is the hero of the hour—and Esther’s hero. 
David, his mother, the three Hatburns, and Esthei 
mpose the group of characters that carry through 
je action. Allen and David’s father are secondary 
aracters. The whole story revolves around David 
the lead. The first part of the picture introduces 
e characters and their relations to each other and, 
David’s desire to be recognized as a man, hints 
the story problem. The premise, introducing the 
>ry problem, is the first complication—the crip- 
ng of Allen by the Hatburns. David faces the 
st big crisis of his life. Tradition, training, public 
'inion, inclination,—all demand that he take re- 
nge upon the Hatburns. The plea of his mother, 
at he must take care of her and Allen, demands 
it he do nothing against the Hatburns and bear 
2 covert scorn of his people. This is a dramatic 
uation, of which we shall learn more later. 

A’ brief examination of the events preceding this 
imatic situation will show the cause and effect 
erred to as necessary to unity in the photoplay, 
cause carrying the government mail is regarded 
the mountain people as a great trust, Allen 
rains from fighting the Hatburns for the killing 



30 


UNITY 


of his dog. Because he shows apparent cowardic 
to the Hatburns, one of them throws the rock whic 
cripples him. Because of the code of the hills, whic 
demands an eye for an eye, Hunter Kinemon loac 
his rifle and starts for the Hatburn cabin to aven£ 
his son’s injury. Because of the excitement an 
emotion, Hunter Kinemon’s weak heart gives wa? 
Because of his death, two great. conflicting duti< 
fall to the lot of David—the avenging of his brother 
injury, and the care of his mother and helpless brothe 
In the same way, cause and effect can be trace 
through the remainder of the story to. the solutic 
of the story problem which is that David shall con 
into his estate as a man and be recognized as sue 
by the community. 

It will be seen that unity in the photoplay la; 
especial stress upon the principle of Coherence- 
cause and effect. The other elements of unit 
however, have not lost their importance. The si 
nificant parts have been carefully selected and 2 
ranged with the objective held firmly in mind. T 
premise, or story problem, corresponds to our interes 
arousing beginning in the short-story. The dims! 
or solution of the story problem, corresponds to ti 
climax or big moment in the short-story. Ther 
together with the emphasizing of important mater: 
(as is done with the dramatic situation discuss * 
above) comply with the demands of our princij 
of Mass. 

It remains now to sum up our discussion of tl 
first fundamental. Unity is the grouping of all t 
parts around one central idea or effect. It is achiev 
through careful selection and arrangement of s 
nificant material. To make such selection int 
ligently the writer must determine clearly what 



UNITY 


31 


objective is; and he must discard all irrelevant 
material. To so arrange his significant material 
that it shall have the greatest possible effectiveness, 
the writer must see to it that the beginning of his 
story arouses interest through a promise to the 
ireader or spectator; that the ending fulfills that prom¬ 
ise; and that the different parts of the story be given 
the comparative emphasis determined by their im¬ 
portance. 

And as an example of perfect unity and simplicity, 
the writer might keep in mind the most impressive 
story ever written: “Jesus wept.” 



CHAPTER III 


CHARACTERIZATION 

The present chapter will deal first with the material 
from which the writer must create his characters, 
that is to say, with living people; second, with the 
various technical methods employed to delineate 
or portray his characters after he has imagined them 
true to life; and third with the application‘of these 
methods to the different story forms. 

Characterization to the writer means conveying 
to the minds of others images or pictures of the people 
his imagination has created—pictures that convey 
not only the physical appearance but the mental 
and spiritual attributes of the individuals. It goes 
without saying that the more clearly these imaginary 
characters are visualized by the writer, the more 
chance he has of conveying clear-cut images of them 
to other minds. Here again is stressed the import¬ 
ance of visualization. It is also self-evident that the 
more life-like the created characters, the more likely 
they will be to capture and hold the interest of the 
reader or spectator. 

If people were all alike, the writer would have 
little difficulty in creating life-like characters for his 
story; also, he would have but little story to tell, 
for all the drama and human interest in life would 
have been told long ago. It is man’s infinite varia- 

32 


CHARACTERIZATION 


33 


:ions and differences that make the writer’s task 
it once difficult and splendidly worthwhile. 

The next few pages may seem a bit abstract and 
aside from the subject under discussion, but the 
*eader may be assured that they are as important, 
perhaps more important, than the succeeding pages 
vhich deal directly with technique. 

All men possess in common the fundamental 
nstincts and emotions,—self-preservation, propa¬ 
gation of the species, love, hate, fear, altruism, 
lugnacity, curiosity, acquisitiveness, joy, sympathy, 
ealousy, play, etc. Through the natural processes 
if heredity, these instincts and emotions are handed 
down through the centuries. We inherit them, not 
inly from our parents and immediate ancestors, but 
rom our forebears who lived back in the dim, dark 
ages of history. 

Many of these instincts may become contra¬ 
dictory to one another. Self-preservation, for in¬ 
stance, is the strongest single law of life, but when 
i mother sees her child in danger, thoughts of self 
/anish and the maternal instinct becomes dominant. 
Hate is modified by love, by sympathy, by altruism, 
[n fact there is constant warfare between man’s 
nstincts, feelings, desires, and motives. This clash 
ir conflict produces drama. It also produces shades 
if feeling and varieties of action that are infinite 
n number, for the reason that these fundamental 
:raits and tendencies are not inherited by all indi¬ 
viduals to the same degree. It is only by heredity 
Tat we can explain why one of two brothers, reared 
n the same atmosphere and surroundings, insists 
m burying himself in the attic with moldy books, 
vhile the other neglects his meals to build an air- 







34 


CHARACTERIZATION 


plane, an automobile, or a steam engine in the wood¬ 
shed. The genius of Shakespeare, Napoleon, Tol¬ 
stoi, Lincoln, leaves us dumb; we can account for 
it only by saying that through the mysterious 
processes of heredity they were born with a certain 
combination of instincts, tendencies and aptitudes 
which, given the proper opportunities for expression, 
made these men what they were. Heredity, then, 
besides accounting for the likenesses between men, 
is also the first chief reason for their differences. 

The second important reason why men differ is 
environment, by which we mean the education, both 
from parents and from teachers, the associates, the 
physical and geographical conditions, the social 
rank, the financial conditions,—in fact, all of the 
outside world with which the individual comes in 
contact. The effects of environment on the funda¬ 
mental instincts are marked. Each instinct makes its 
appearance at a definite stage in the development of 
the individual and under normal conditions runs 
through a cycle of growth and decadence. If not 
given opportunity to function, it deteriorates and 
becomes useless or even harmful. As an example, 
the instincts for adventure and combat emerge in 
boys about the age of twelve and last normally until 
they are eighteen or twenty. In the early part of 
this period boys band together to become in imagina¬ 
tion pirates, hunters, Indian fighters, highwaymen, 
explorers, etc. In the latter part of the period the 
instincts find expression in football, hunting, and 
other outdoor sports. If a boy is cooped up too much 
at this time in his life, forced to give all his time to 
books and serious pursuits, the instincts for adventure, 
and combat will not find normal expression. A part 


CHARACTERIZATION 


35 


his nature will remain undeveloped or will become 
rverted. In after life, he will in all likelihood be 
shy, retiring man of sedentary habits and occupa- 
>n, who never goes fishing, who has no love for the 
en road, and whose highest adventure is a game of 
3 quet. 

Through environment are brought about differ- 
ces that divide men into classes. There is first 
difference in racial characteristics, caused by 
mate, difficulty or ease in procuring a living, and 
e various conditions of the physical world. The 
Dical, undemonstrative, wily Indian differs from 
e impulsive, child-like Negro. Men differ in their 
itional characteristics. The Englishman, with 
3 family pride and tradition, his matter-of-factness, 
unlike the American with his democratic tastes, 
3 nervous energy. Men differ in their occupational 
aracteristics. The college professor, the brick- 
^er, the salesman, the bookkeeper, the artist, 
jch has qualities not possessed by the others. The 
aracteristics of any one of these classes or divisions 
e called typical. A man possessing to a marked 
gree the several characteristics of his class is called 
type. 

In addition to the characteristics that mark a 
an as belonging to a group or class, there are certain 
lits possessed by every individual that belong to 
m alone. A certain man has a horror of firearms. 
* has, also, an inordinate fondness for cherry pie. 
irthermore, he has an embarrassing habit of blush- 
y when being introduced to a woman, and then of 
suming a gushing manner to cover his confusion, 
lere is a story germ awaiting the writer’s imagina- 
>n in each of these traits. And this certain man, 



36 


CHARACTERIZATION 


whoever he may be, has a thousand other kink 
and deviations from the average, a thousand littl 
habits and idiosyncrasies, that set him apart an 
make him a distinct individuality. 

It is the writer’s business to know as many type 
as possible and to catalogue either on paper or i 
his mind, the typical traits belonging to the diffei 
ent classes. It is likewise his business to form th 
habit of studying every individual he meets or the 
he has the opportunity of observing, in order t 
learn the distinctive qualities of that individu; 
which make him different from every other individua 

All great characters in fiction have been bot 
strongly typical and unusually distinctive as ii 
dividuals. Let us consider for a moment one of th 
greatest and most human characters in literature- 
d’Artagnan, the hero of Dumas’ ‘The Three Mu: 
keteers.” This fighting, brawling, lovable lad < 
eighteen is the symbol of youth with all its glam( 
of love and romance and adventure. He possess! 
so many of the typical characteristics of youth ; 
eighteen that he represents this class to a mu( 
greater extent than do most actual members of th; 
class. He has, also, outstanding traits that a 
purely his own. He is generous to a fault, but 
the same time selfishly ambitious; he is combati\ 
intolerant, and brave to the point of foolhardines- 
and yet at times he is as tender-hearted as a gi:j 
he is hot-tempered, conceited, astute, and full of tl 
joy of living. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote 
d’Artagnan: 

“I do not say there is no character as well dra^s 
in Shakespeare; I do say there is none that I love 1 
wholly.” And again: . . for no part of the woi 

has ever seemed to me so charming as these pag 


CHARACTERIZATION 


37 


d not even my friends are quite so real, perhaps 
ite so dear, as d’Artagnan.” It is true that Ste- 
nson was speaking of d’Artagnan in his later years 
he appeared in one of the sequels to “The Three 
usketeers,” but there are those who have the 
ne affection for the rollicking musketeer at 
;hteen. 

Had Dumas made his character typical only, 
litting the individual traits, d’Artagnan would 
11 be a commanding figure; but he would be an 
ial creation, true to fact but without the warm 
sath of life. Had he been made individual only, 
th the typical traits omitted, he would have been 
exaggeration, a caricature. The combination of 
s typical and the individual made him not only a 
*at character in fiction, but a most human and 
mble one. 

It will be of benefit here to digress for a moment 
show the close relation between our subject of 
aracterization and originality. A great deal of 
iphasis is placed on the necessity for getting away 
>m hackneyed situations. Producers and editors 
1 us in scathing terms to “cut out” the mortgage 
the farm, the man who is reported dead and who 
nes back to find his wife about to marry another 
m, the private room in the roadhouse where the 
lain pursues the heroine around the table, et 
era, et cetera. As a result, the poor writer is con- 
iually racking his brains in an effort to devise 
yel complications and new twists. He would 
jiieve this originality with much less strain and 
1 if he were to direct his energies, not upon his 
ft but upon his characters. 

In other words, the originality of our story de- 
ids, not so much upon our facility in manipulating 


38 


CHARACTERIZATION 


events and incidents, as upon our ability to creat 
distinctive, life-like characters. Let us say that on 
of the characters in my story is trying to force thj 
heroine to marry him. How shall I characteriz 
this unsympathetic person who is technically know: 
as the antagonist? If I give him the ready-mad 
characterization of the old stock villain who is a 
“bad,” with his silk hat, his black moustache, hi 
“Curses! I’ll win you yet, my lady!”—doesn’t i 
follow that he will pursue the lady in the same ol 
conventional manner? If I make my principc 
character a copy of the perfect hero I have met S 
often in fiction and play handsome, muscula 
absolute in his virtues, with hardly a single huma 
attribute—won’t he gain his objective and save til 
heroine by precisely the same old methods th< 
heroes have used for ages? How can I hope to g< 
anything else but hackneyed situations from sue 
characters? 

Therefore, if I wish to give originality to my pl< 
action, I must first create characters capable i 
original action; characters who can think for ther 
selves, who are not bound to act in accordan 
with the characterization thrust upon them l 
countless writers who have gone before me. Orip 
nality is relative, of course, but the amount presdj 
in the actions of my characters will be determine 
by the degree to which I have individualized tho 
characters. While they must be typical of the ra> 
or class to which they belong, they must also ha 
specific attributes—traits, habits, passions, virtues, 
that set them apart as individuals. 

I shall make my antagonist, for instance, a mi 
whose evil nature dominates his better nature, b : 
I shall not make him wholly evil. He might have 




CHARACTERIZATION 


39 


very remarkable mind, given to logical reasoning 
and keen judgment. He might be a skillful surgeon 
who is doing extremely worthwhile work in his 
profession. The moment I give him distinctive 
:haracterization such as this, I tend to make him 
luman and real to my audience. But besides making 
lim human and real, these particular qualities will 
arobably result in originality and drama. For, hav- 
ng given him a remarkable intellect, I must make 
aim live up to it. He will be shrewd, cunning, and 
dangerous in his antagonism to the hero. He will 
lot dip into the old bag of tricks carried by the stock 
dllain. And the more cunning and resourceful he 
s in his plotting, the more desperately will the hero 
aeed to struggle in order to win, and the more chance 
-here will be for strong, dramatic situations. 

S We have shown that the writer, in order to create 
ife-like characters in his imagination, must con¬ 
stantly study living people; we have seen just what 
s meant by life-like characters—namely, that they 
must be both typical and distinctively individual, 
ft remains now to discuss the technical methods by 
vhich the writer may transfer his creations to the 
qiinds of others. 

A writer may convey to us a man’s nature and 
qualities by description. As a simple example: “Reg- 
nald was so vain that he was silly.” This is the 
easiest and most obvious way of delineating character. 
It is also the least effective. 

If the author, however, instead of stating the traits 
ff his character, had described concrete facts about 
Reginald, allowing the reader to make his own 
nference, the description would be much more 
effective. For example, if he had told us that Regi- 




40 


CHARACTERIZATION 


nald wore several rings, had his face massaged daily 
had his cigarettes made to order with his monogran 
in gold stamped on them—we should get a mucl 
more vivid picture of young Reginald.. The knowl 
edge that he was vain to the point of silliness woulc 
not be a mere matter of words; it would be a conclu 
sion arrived at through our own reasoning whict 
is always more convincing to us than the conclusions 
we must accept from others. 

The foregoing example affords an excellent op¬ 
portunity to emphasize the necessity for usin^ 
significant detail. Suppose the writer had told us 
that Reginald brushed his hair carefully ever} 
morning, that he shaved daily, that he cleaned his 
nails and brushed his teeth with, regularity. Sue! 
qualities, while typical to a certain extent, because 
they belong to quite a number of men, would nol 
have any great meaning for us because they are. nol 
significant; they would not give us any real insighl 
into Reginald’s character. The qualities selectee 
are not descriptive of extreme vanity. They an 
not sufficiently typical and not at all distinctive 
In other words, they are not the significant details 
required to arouse the reader’s intense interest in th< 
character. 

Especially in describing the personal appearance 
of his characters the writer must use care to make 
his description mean more to the reader than a mere 
enumeration of physical qualities. The details o 
personal appearance should be so selected and se 
presented that they reveal the person’s inner nature 
It is easy to describe the curves of Sylvia’s cheel 
and shoulder, to say that her eyes are blue, that he: 
hair is brown and curly, that her small mouth i: 


CHARACTERIZATION 


41 


ke a Cupid’s bow. Such description alone is as so 
luch dead wood. Outside of the fact that it is trite, 
has no particular meaning. If given no more than 
lis, the reader will form his own picture of Sylvia, 
[hose eyes to him may be gray-green, whose hair 
erhaps will be tow-colored and straight, and whose 
louth will be large and singularly like that of a 
fertain girl he admires. But if the writer describes 
jie almost imperceptible slant to Sylvia’s eyes, the 
lint drooping position of the upper lids, the shifting 
ghts of allurement and calculation, he will build 
jp a picture with meaning; he will convey images 
lat enable the reader to catch glimpses into the 
irl’s character. 

j Enough has been said concerning description as 
means of portraying character to show that the 
lost artistic and successful description is that which 
Elects only significant detail, and which presents 
hat detail in such a way that the reader “gets” 
he particular characteristics or traits through in- 
Tence. 

| Here a word of practical advice is in order. It 
,, wise never to give too much descriptive material 
t any one point in the story. If possible, the de- 
:riptive part of character delineation should be 
itroduced a little at a time and only as it is necessary 
)r clearness of action or for preparation. Many of 
le early novelists made a practice of telling all they 
new about their characters before they began the 
tory. Modern fiction writers introduce their char- 
cters as quickly as possible, but portray their char- 
cterizations gradually. 

The second method of depicting character is by 
stting forth the thoughts and emotions of the fic- 



42 


CHARACTERIZATION 


titious person. This is known as psychologic 
analysis. The following, written by a Palmer studen 
is a good example. 

“Maxwell tried to convince himself that he sti 
had a few cards up his sleeve, but he could not ri 
himself of a sickening sense of disgust at his ow 
behavior of the previous day. If he had only ha 
the courage to tell the truth! Was there still tirr 
to make a clean breast of the whole wretched affaii 
Would Marjorie come to their meeting place und( 
the pine, as she had promised to do before the ui 
fortunate occurrence of yesterday? It was unlikeb 
There was no doubt that she now looked upon hii 
as a coward and a cad. And rightly so. A swii 
anger suddenly swept through him at memory c 
Pollard. What right had the old fool to blurt oi 
everything he knew? . . . Slowly in his mind 

plan began to rise and take form, one that would nc 
only restore Marjorie’s faith in him, but would brin 
disgrace and ruin to the hymn-singing Pollard.” 

In the foregoing paragraph a very definite insigf 
is given ipto Maxwell’s character. The first sentenc 
hints that he has been playing a crooked game c 
some sort; also it tells us that Maxwell is not a 
bad—he is ashamed of something he has done. Th 
second inference is strengthened by the next sentenct 
The remainder of the paragraph, in addition to re 
vealing character, depicts a conflict between Ma> 
well’s evil and better natures, with the evil in th 
ascendency at the end. 

It is in the novel that this method of psychologic; 
analysis is used most extensively. It is very effecti\ 
when not carried to excess. When employed in th 
short-story it must, as a rule, be very sparingl 
used, for the reason that it always has a tendenc 


CHARACTERIZATION 


43 


d halt the action. If overdone or carelessly handled, 
ven to a slight degree, it gives the reader the im- 
ression of being forced to stop and consider abstract 
tiings while the story waits. Such an impression 
^variably destroys the illusion of reality. These 
tatements may seem to contradict the previous 
tatement that “Markheim,” which is nothing much 
ut psychological analysis, is a remarkable story. 
>ut Stevenson was artist enough to realize that a 
hort-story told almost entirely by means of mental 
jnalysis as it is ordinarily done, would be tiresome, 
"he dramatic, and most important portion of the 
tory is that dealing with the dialogue between 
darkheim and his spirit visitor. This visitor is 
darkheim’s better nature, personified and objec¬ 
ted by the author to get away from the abstract 
ffect produced by so much psychological analysis, 
\nd to get the illusion of reality through action and 
lialogue. 

i The third method of portraying character is by 
he device of presenting the person indirectly, through 
lis effect upon another or through the speech of the 
econd character. The following passage from 
‘Karain, a Memory,” by Joseph Conrad, is a good 
Example of the use of this indirect method. 

“We saw him once walking in daylight amongst 
he houses of the settlement. At the doors of huts 
groups of women turned to look after him, warbling 
|;oftly, and with gleaming eyes; armed men stood 
')ut of the way, submissive and erect; others ap¬ 
proached from the side, bending their backs to ad¬ 
dress him humbly; an old woman stretched out a 
draped lean arm—'Blessings on thy head!’ she cried 
rom a dark doorway; a fiery-eyed man showed 
ibove the low fence of a plantain-patch a streaming 



44- 


CHARACTERIZATION 


face, a bare breast scarred in two places, and be 
lowed out pantingly after him, ‘God give victory 
our master!’ ” 

This indirect method, which is one of the mo 
artistic devices for delineating character, is usual 
given as separate and distinct from the other method 
Since it usually employs the means of action ar 
dialogue to produce its effects, the device is moi 
logically to be regarded as a variation of the dramat 
method, which we shall treat next. 

The dramatic method portrays character throug 
direct action and dialogue. We shall learn in tl 
following chapter that the most intense effects ai 
produced through the fundamental of drama. Fc 
this reason, any of the other fundamentals that ca 
be handled in a dramatic manner become moi 
effective. As an instance of portraying charactc 
through action, consider the following brief extrac 
from “They Grind Exceeding Small.” 

“When the sleigh was upright Hazen wer 
forward and stood beside the mare. . . . Bi 
I could see that he was angry and I was not sui 
prised when he reached up and gripped th 
horse’s ear. He pulled the mare’s head dow 
and twisted the ear viciously. All in a silenc 
that was deadly. 

“The mare snorted and tried to rear bac 
and Hazen clapped the butt of his whip acros 
her knees. She stood still, quivering, and h 
wrenched at her ear again. 

“ ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘keep the road.’ ” 

A less artistic writer than Ben Ames Willian 
would have been content to let the character beat tf 
mare and curse her in a frenzy of anger. Such actic 


CHARACTERIZATION 


45 


rould have told us, certainly, that Hazen Kinch was 
ruel. But the effect would not have been excep- 
ionally strong for the reason that such action of 
•eating a dumb animal is not particularly original, 
lut to beat a horse as Mr. Williams has Kinch do 
: is original and highly effective story construction. 

Another extract from the same story will illustrate 
he delineation of character through dialogue. 

“When he was gone I asked Hazen casually: 
'What was it that he dropped upon the table?’ 

“ 'A dollar,’ said Hazen promptly. 'A dollar 
bill. The miserable fool!’ 

“Hazen’s mental processes were always of 
interest to me. 

“ 'You mean to give it back to him?’ I asked. 

“He stared at me and he laughed. 'No! If 
he can’t take care of his own money—that’s 
why he is what he is.’ 

“ ‘Still it is his money.’ 

“ 'He owes me more than that.’ 

“ 'Going to give him credit for it?’ 

“ 'Am I a fool?’ Hazen asked me. ‘Do I look 
so much of a fool?’ 

“ 'He may charge you with finding it.’ 

“ 'He loses a dollar; I find one. Can he prove 
ownership? Pshaw!’ Hazen laughed again. 

“ 'If there is any spine in him he will lay the 
thing to you as a theft,’ I suggested. I was not 
afraid of angering Hazen. He allowed me open 
speech; he seemed to find a grim pleasure in 
my distaste for him and for his way of life. 

“ 'If there were any backbone in the man he 
would not be paying me eighty dollars a year 
on a five-hundred-dollar loan — discounted.’ 





46 


CHARACTERIZATION 


''Hazen grinned at me triumphantly. 

'' T wonder if he will come back,’ I said. 

“ 'Besides,’ Hazen continued, 'he lied to me 
He told me the eleven-fifty was all he had.’ 

Almost every word uttered by Hazen Kinch in th 
above quotation helps to reveal the man’s character 
lays bare the utter crookedness of the man’s mora 
nature. 

We have then, four methods of portraying char 
acter—through description , through psychologica 
analysis , through the effect of one character upon an 
other , and through action and dialogue. 

The fiction writer does not use one method ex 
clusively in any one story, but employs a combina 
tion of all, with one of the four predominating ac 
cording to the nature of his material and the effec 
he wishes to produce. He uses all four methods, bu 
the first two are peculiarly adapted to his medium 
The photoplay writer will, by the very nature of hi 
medium, depend largely upon the use of action. 

Before we consider the examples given under th' 
four methods, to see just how they would be handlec 
by the fiction writer and the photoplay writer, le 
us first point out certain limitations that are impose( 
upon the short-story and the photoplay. 

The short-story, because of its compression and it 
restricted length, must present its characterization 
in bold, brief strokes. The writer seizes upon one o 
two dominant traits and emphasizes them almost 
but not quite, to the point of exaggeration, in orde 
to get a vivid, striking picture. Also, he strives t 
select incidents that will at the same time character 
ize his people, show what they desire or intend doing 
and advance the plot action. Detail must be sig 
nificant, and it must be brief. The novel, by reaso 



CHARACTERIZATION 


47 


its scope and slower movement, permits the use 
a greater number of shorter strokes, less effective 
parately, but weightier in their total effect. The 
ipvelist may introduce any number of incidents into 
Ijs story that do not advance the plot action. 

For example, the significant details in the charac- 
rization of Hazen Kinch were presented very briefly 
the short-story. Three lines were used to tell the 
ader that the father of Kinch’s wife had owed 
inch money that he could not pay, and that the 
tter had taken the girl in payment. Fourteen 
lies were used to tell the incident of the widow 
hose husband was killed and whose farm Kinch 
id succeeded in getting. The novelist, in handling 
is detail, would probably have devoted a whole 
;iapter to the first incident; the second would have 
;en greatly elaborated and treated either as a 
parate chapter or carried as a sub-plot through 
veral chapters. 

The photoplay writer, in handling these incidents, 
3 uld be limited in much the same way as the short- 
pry writer. For the screen story, while it more 
bsely resembles the novel than the short-story in 
mplexity of plot, is very like the short-story in 
at material which does not advance the plot action 
ust be brief. Both incidents under discussion are 
icessary for characterization but do not advance 
e plot. Both easily could be translated into 
|reenable action, but a moment’s thought will 
, ow that to work out the scenes of either would 
suit in a lengthy episode out of all proportion to 
!* relative value in the story. The scenario writer 
‘obably would dispose of the first incident with a 
|.refully thought-out subtitle. (This is one of the 
;es of the subtitle—to handle large masses of un- 




48 


CHARACTERIZATION 


wieldly material.) The second might be presente 
by means of a brief scene between Kinch and tl 
widow at the time of the foreclosure of the mor 
gage. 

It will be seen from our discussion that the phot< 
play is much more limited than the novel and, 1 
a certain extent, more limited than the short-stor 
A whole episode, or sequence of events, that can I 
suggested in perhaps a single line in the short-stor 
may require one or two reels of film when translate 
into action. The screen writer can sometimes pi 
across such material in a subtitle, but because tl 
amount of film that can be used for subtitles in 01 
picture is very small compared to that used for actio 
it is evident that if there is much material of th 
nature it must be eliminated. 

Keeping these limitations in mind, let us go ba< 
to our four examples. It so happens that the deta: 
used in the example of description might have bej 
selected also by a photoplay writer. Reginalc 
wearing of rings, his face massage, the gold mon 
grammed cigarettes—could all be presented in bri 
scenes showing Reginald taking his daily treatme 
in a beauty parlor. The following passage,. fro 
“Karain, a Memory,” is an example of descriptii 
of a different type. 

“It was the stage where, dressed splendid 
for his part, he strutted, incomparably di 
nified, made important by the power he had. 
awaken an absurd expectation of somethi 
heroic going to take place—a burst of acti 
or song—upon the vibrating tone of a wond< 
ful sunshine. He was ornate and disturbii 
for one could not imagine what depth or h< 
rible void such an elaborate front could 


CHARACTERIZATION 


49 


worthy to hide. He was not masked—there 
was too much life in him, and a mask is only 
a lifeless thing; but he presented himself es¬ 
sentially as an actor, as a human being aggres¬ 
sively disguised. His smallest acts were pre¬ 
pared and unexpected, his speeches grave, his 
sentences ominous like hints and complicated 
like arabesques. He was treated with a solemn 
respect accorded in the irreverent West only to 
the monarchs of the stage, and he accepted the 
profound homage with a sustained dignity seen 
nowhere else but behind the footlights and in the 
condensed falseness of some grossly tragic 
situation. It was almost impossible to remember 
who he was—only a petty chief of a conveniently 
isolated corner of Mindanao, where we could 
in comparative safety break the law against 
the traffic in firearms and ammunition with the 
natives.” 

This detail of characterization, which is extremely 
Tective in Conrad’s short novel, is a bombardment 
: subtle, abstract impressions that help to build 
p a powerful effect. It conveys to the reader’s 
find the traits of rulership, tremendous dignity, 
ipressed power, and a love for the theatrical. But 
ich detail, as it stands, could not be incorporated 
ito a screen story. Assuming that these four traits 
re the significant ones, the photoplay writer would 
e obliged to bring them out by creating definite 
:enes of action that could be photographed. He 
ould probably do it in an early sequence in the story, 
sing great care to link the scenes closely into the 
lot action. 

For instance, the scenes might be laid in the coun- 
fi hall, with Karain surrounded by his armed chiefs. 




50 


CHARACTERIZATION 


The beginning of the sequence might be mappe 
out roughly as follows: The headmen and importai 
men of the village are assembling in the counc 
hall for the purpose of receiving the emissary of 
hostile tribe of natives. By their gravity and res 
lessness, the importance of the occasion is show] 
Karain enters. Here is ample opportunity to conve 
the qualities of rulership and dignity ,—by the defe: 
ence and homage of the headmen to their chief, b 
his commanding, prepossessed bearing. Karai 
orders changes in the decorations on the thatche 
roof, alters the formation of the two rows of spearme 
ranged along the sides of the hall, and makes h 
sword-bearer stand in a certain position behind h 
shoulder. Here is shown his love for the t-heatrica 
The emissary arrives. His manner is arrogant a 
he moves toward Karain’s seat. Before he speak 
he deliberately surveys the assembled chieftair 
sneeringly. Karain sits unmoved, waiting cooil} 
But his men scowl; angry mutterings begin; a heac 
man suddenly draws his kris and strides toward th 
insulting messenger. Karain liffs his hand in a 
imperious gesture. The headman stops, falters, an 
quietly resumes his place. Here is repressed powei 
, . . The information concerning the emissar 

would need to be conveyed to the audience by 
subtitle. With this exception, the material is a 
presented in screenable action. 

The second example of characterization—by ps) 
chological analysis—in which we see the working 
of Maxwell’s mind, might have been lifted fror 
either a short-story or a novel. In both story-forn 
the handling of psychological analysis is much tf 
same, the only difference being that in the novel! 
may be used more extensively and in more detai 


CHARACTERIZATION 


51 


t is apparent, as we have already noted, that this 
pethod of presenting the direct thoughts and feelings 
1 a character belongs primarily to the fiction writer, 
"he photoplay interprets through the eye of the 
amera—and the camera cannot see into a person’s 
lind and heart, except as he expresses his thoughts 
nd emotions in action. If we can fully comprehend 
his last statement, we are in a fair way to grasp the 
istinction between fiction treatment and screen 
reatment of the same material. Let us illustrate 
,dth a simple example. 

The fiction writer when he uses the method of 
jsychological analysis, says: “John sat on the rock 
nd gave free rein to his black thoughts. He would 
ave liked to thrash Burke, but he was afraid.” In 
pis form the material is useless for the screen. There 
! ; nothing there for the camera to catch except John 
Itting on a rock scowling. But if the photoplay 
rriter can objectify this mental action on John’s 
|art, if he can devise action that will reveal to the 
pectators what John is thinking and feeling, then 
le material is screenable although its form must be 
hanged. The task of changing the form in this 
articular instance would be easy. A brief scene 
etwe'en the two men would be ample—Burke is 
bsorbed in his work. John comes upon him un¬ 
expectedly. John’s start of surprise changes to an 
xpression of hate. He draws back his fist to strike, 
►urke turns suddenly from his work. John’s fist 
rops. He stammers out a greeting. 

To get back to our example: Maxwell’s thoughts 
nd feelings are concerned with his love for Marjorie 
nd his hate for Pollard; with his shame and humili- 
tion over an occurrence of the day before; with his 
Deculations as to what will happen under the pine 






52 


CHARACTERIZATION 


tree, and with his plan to defeat Pohard and win 
Marjorie. Enough has been said in discussing 
previous examples to show the general line of attack 
a photoplay writer would take in translating this 
material into use for the screen. He would. work 
out in detailed action the important happening of 
yesterday, in which Maxwell’s hate for Pollard, his 
love for Marjorie, his shame and humiliation, to¬ 
gether with the reasons for them,—are seen by the 
audience. The meeting between Maxwell and Mar¬ 
jorie at the pine tree would also be shown in direct 
action. Marjorie’s reactions and status in the story 
would not be a matter of supposition, but would 
be made plain to the audience. Maxwell’s plan would 
be presented as he carried it out in action. 

In the photoplay, “The Girl I Loved,” the hero’s 
inner conflict of desires is objectified by two length} 
sequences in which the spectators see him performing 
those things his baser nature has been prompting 
him to do. At the end of each episode he wakes up 
and the spectators realize that they have been watch 
ing merely the inner workings of the character \ 
mind. While the dream sequences are effective ii 
this particular photoplay, the inexperienced writer i; 
urgently advised to avoid dream pictures. . I 
flash or brief vision of what is taking place in jj 
person’s mind is occasionally permissible, but ; 
lengthy sequence of this nature is to be avoided. 

It will be seen that, for purpose of the screen, th 
subject matter contained in an analysis of menta 
or emotional states is not at fault, but merely th 
method of presentation; and that the photoplay 
writer may use the same material provided he ca:i 
objectify it or translate it into screenable action 



CHARACTERIZATION 53 

Some material is, as we have stated, too subtle to 
3e translated. 

| The third method of presenting character—through 
the effect of one character upon another—adapts 
Itself equally well to fiction or photoplay. The 
Account of Karain walking through his settlement 
pould be transferred almost verbatim from the 
jiovel to a scenario. It must be remembered, of 
jbourse, that where the effect of one character upon 
another is expressed entirely through dialogue, the 
nethod belongs to the field of fiction. 

! The fourth method—the dramatic method of 
|peech and action—needs little comment. It is the 
post artistic of the four methods. It is used by 
Poth fiction writer and screen writer. The fiction 
writer may or may not use the dramatic method in 
he telling of his story; but the photoplay writer must, 
:o as great an extent as possible, translate ideas that 
tome to him expressed in the forms of description 
md analysis into the dramatic method of action. 

! The example in which Hazen Kinch’s trait of 
:ruelty is portrayed, is perhaps not the best to il- 
ustrate character through action for the reason that 
t contains speech. Yet the action is so significant 
ind expressive that the passage, like the second 
example from Conrad’s novel, might be put almost 
ntact into a scenario. 

The example of character expressed through dia- 
ogue, in which Kinch reveals his dishonesty, would 
lever be used by the photoplay writer. Lengthy 
iialogue has no place in the screen story. And yet. 
mef dialogue, used sparingly in subtitles, is a legi- 
:imate tool of the screen writer. In translating the 
pven example for use in his own medium he would 
:hange the action slightly and condense the dialogue 







54 


CHARACTERIZATION 


to perhaps one significant speech—something lik< 
this: The man who is telling the story would b< 
allowed to see Kinch covering the dollar with his 
hand and pocketing it. After the farmer leaves, th< 
narrator protests against the theft and inquires 
whether Kinch means to keep the money. All this 
could be put over in action. Kinch waves his hanc 
carelessly and replies (one subtitle): “Keep its 
Sure, I’ll keep it. He can’t prove he lost it here.’: 
The thing to be remembered in portraying charactei 
through dialogue on the screen, whether through th( 
character’s own words or those of another, has al¬ 
ready been stressed; namely, that subtitles must b< 
limited in number. 

Let us glance back over our chapter on Charac¬ 
terization to see what we have accomplished. The 
three broad divisions of the chapter are: I. Living 
people—the material from which the writer firsl 
creates his characters in imagination; II. The foui 
technical methods by which these created characters 
are transferred from his imagination to the minds 
of others; III. The application of these methods 
to the short-story, the novel, and the photoplay. 

We saw that men have characteristics in common— 
the instincts and emotions given them through hered¬ 
ity—which are called typical traits; and also that mer 
differ, not only because of the intangible forces o 
heredity, but because of environment, which gives 
them characteristics that are distinctive and in 
dividual. We emphasized the necessity for th< 
writer’s studying both typical and individual trait 
in order to make his characters true to life. We di 
gressed for a moment to see how our subject of char 
acterization bears vitally upon the quality of origi 


CHARACTERIZATION 


55 


ality and found that originality is largely a matter 
: creating distinctive characters. 

Under the head of technical methods used to 
art ray character, there are four: 1 . The Method of 
Description, in which the author easily and obviously 
ates the traits of his character, or in which with 
ore artistry he describes concrete facts from which 
le reader draws his own conclusions concerning 
[e person; 2. the Method of Psychological Analysis, 

! which the author peers into the mind of the char¬ 
ter to give his thoughts and feelings; 3. the Method 
Presenting One Character by his Effect upon An¬ 
ker; 4. the Dramatic Method, in which character 
depicted through the individual’s own speech 
id action. 

When we came to study the application of the four 
ethods to the different story forms, we made plain 
at characterization in the short-story must be 
esented in bold, brief strokes, while the novel 
iployed more leisurely and detailed treatment; and 
at the photoplay was like the short-story in that 
aterial which did not advance the plot action 
ust be brief. We discovered from our examination 
the examples that the fiction writer did not use 
e method exclusively, but employed a combina- 
>n of all four, with one predominating according 
the nature of his material and the effect he de¬ 
ed. We found, also, that the photoplay writer, 
10 uses primarily the methods involving action,, 
d to objectify or translate material cast in the 
'm of description, psychological analysis, and 
ilogue. 

Above all, we tried to emphasize the fact that 
aracterization, no matter what method is used 
best portrayed by selecting significant detail. 



56 


CHARACTERIZATION 


In conclusion, let us keep firmly in mind that t 
creative writer in order to grow must never stop 
his study of life and people. The history of ai 
branch of literature shows a steady evolution fro 
that which is fantastic and unreal to that which, 
normal and true to life. Characterization, is dai 
becoming more important and more vital in shot 
story, novel, and photoplay. 


CHAPTER IV 


DRAMA 

As we begin the discussion of each fundamental 
is difficult to refrain from writing: “This is the 
ost important of all!” Each is so necessary to 
le success of the whole, that the centering of at- 
ntion upon any one makes it appear the vital factor 
the product. It can, however, be safely said in 
gard to our present subject—Drama—that it is 
^e means by which the writer produces his most 
)werful effects. Because the dramatic deals with 
e deep rooted instincts of the race, its appeal to 
e emotions is intense. We intend in this chapter to 
How a somewhat similar outline to that used in 
e chapter on Characterization. We shall first 
quire into the nature of drama, by analyzing it 
to its various elements; second, discuss the tech- 
cal form by which drama is expressed; and third, 
mpare the handling of the separate elements in 
e different story forms. 

Dramatic critics of the stage have long argued as 
the proper definition for drama. To one the es- 
nce of drama is conflict , to another it is crisis , to a 
ird, contrast. All agree, however, that in nine- 
nths of the successful plays conflict involving a 
iman will in action is the basic cause of the drama- 
; effects. For our purpose it is not necessary to 
nsider whether conflict is essential to all drama; it 
enough to know that it is present in nine-tenths of 
57 



58 


DRAMA 


all successful dramatic work. Keeping in mind t. 
fact that we are discussing creative writing applie 
not to stage plays, but to fiction and the phot 
drama, we may formulate our definition of drar 
as follows: Drama is the representation in action 
human desires and motives in an emotional confli< 

The antagonistic force may be Fate; it may j 
the laws of life or society that the individual is tryi 
to transcend; it may be the motives and desires 
another human being who opposes his purpos 
finally the struggle may take place in the individua 
own breast between his warring impulses and i 
sires. When the conflict is with outside forces! 
is called external , when it is within the charact 
it is called internal. In order to be fully drama 
and to satisfy the audience, the struggle mi 
eventually end in a decisive victory for one of t 
two opposing forces. (When the antagonistic foi 
conquers, we have tragedy.) A man sitting in -1 
armchair may be fighting a terrific battle wit! 
himself; the writer may give us the minute det| 
of the struggle; but unless the issue is finally sett 
and unless the victorious force is released to w( 
some significant change in the character’s life, \ 
struggle becomes futile; and the story as a wh 
is not fully dramatic. 

Let us suppose that the conflicting forces 
patriotism and friendship. The police are look 
for a spy who has stolen valuable maps. It is 
perative for the safety of the country that tb 
maps be recovered. . That spy is the friend of 
character and has recently saved his life. Will 
character, who knows where his friend is hid 
give him up to death, or will he betray his couni 


DRAMA 


59 


[e must do something. If his patriotism wins, he 
r ill inform the police; if friendship wins, he will 
pmain silent. Note that, in this particular instance, 
whatever he does is classed as action. The police 
pay be searching the house while the struggle is 
joing on within him; the spy may be in the act of 
oarding a vessel;—if he is to inform the police he 
lust do it immediately. If he remains motionless 
1 his armchair, that very repression becomes sig- 
ificant action. 

' Conflict, then, is the first element of drama. In 
iscussing the nature of conflict, we shall see just 
fhy drama appeals to the interest and the emotions 
f people. The universe as we know it is filled with 
ever-ending strife. The stars and planets hold 
heir positions through the adjustment of contending 
Drees of attraction and repulsion. Evolution in 
lants and animals is ‘The survival of the fittest.” 
Vdien we study human life, we find that it is one 
)ng struggle, broken by rare moments of peace and 
laction, that seem to be only breathing spells in 
/hich we gird our loins for more desperate efforts, 
"he first breath drawn by the new-born infant is 
ccomplished only by a supreme effort of its tiny 
eing, and from that instant its life becomes a never 
easing conflict—for food and clothes and material 
oods, for fame, for power, for love. It is not at all 
trange that the human instincts and emotions, 
diich lie at the bottom of conflict in actual life, 
hould be aroused at the sight of an artistic repre- 
entation of conflict. 

This love for watching a struggle or fight is mani- 
ested by people in all walks of life, in all conditions 
>f society. It can be seen at prize-fights, horse 
aces, football games, chess tournaments. In such 




60 


DRAMA 


contests, either of brute strength or skill, the strugg! 
is an artificial one brought about for the purpose ( 
producing pleasurable reaction in the spectator 
In the stage play, fiction, and photodrama the en 
in view is the same, but the struggle is, as nearly a 
possible, a representation of that found in life 
Instincts give rise to desires, and it is the clashin 
of desires or motives that causes conflict betwee 
human beings. (In the drama of Fate, human de 
sires are pitted against the forces of nature or agains 
laws upon which the human will has no effect.) I 
we could find two men who thought and felt exactl; 
alike on all things, we would know for a certaint; 
that no drama could possibly arise from their re 
lations with each other. And so, to produce conflict- 
and drama—the writer first creates contrastin 
characters whose differences in thinking, in habits, i 
ideals, may lead to a clash of wills. 

An analogy is never conclusive as proof, but i 
may be exceedingly valuable for illustration. B 
watching the spectators at a football game, we sha 
learn something of the emotion produced by conflic 1 
Let us assume that the game is the last of the seasof 
and that it will decide whether the home team win 
or loses the championship. The teams are evenl 
matched; both are determined to win. The game jj 
hotly contested, first one side scoring a point, the 
the other. It is the last five minutes of play, with th 
home team pressing the enemy’s goal and the scoi; 
even. A player on the home team gets the ball an 
charges with head down into the ranks of the opposin i 
players. Now he is half buried in a surging mass ( 
arms and legs, now he is up, dodging and twisting 
As he fights his way nearer and nearer to the lir; 
that means victory or defeat, let us look closely d 


DRAMA 


61 


ne of the spectators who wants the home team to 
/in. 

I He is sitting on the edge of his seat—perhaps he 
standing on it—body bent forward with every 
uscle taut. His eyes are glued on the players, 
3 face is contorted painfully. His hat is crushed 
er one ear, one hand is convulsively clutched on 
e shoulder of the stranger in front. If this man 
uld be isolated from his surroundings and shown 
his present condition to his friends, they would 
: alarmed. And yet, this is not an exaggerated 
cture; it can be seen at any good game. The man 
breathless in the grip of suspended emotion, emo- 
ion so intense that it is at once joyful and painful, 
lis whole being is for the moment dominated by 
uspense. 

Suspense is the second of our elements of drama, 
,nd is so closely related to conflict that one cannot 
>e intelligently discussed without the other. Let 
is examine the circumstances which brought about 
his state of emotion in the man at the football 
'ame. 

The conditions of the game were purposely made 
;uch that the greatest possible emotion would be 
iroused. Note the first significant point: the game 
decides whether the home team wins or loses the 
fiiampionship. It follows, then, that the home team 
las something worthwhile to fight for—not only a 
definite objective but a vital one. It follows, also, 
:hat our spectator’s desire to have the home team 
vin is much more intense than it was during any 
Dther game of the season. The greater his desire, 
the greater his interest in the game. 

The second significant point is that the teams are 
evenly matched and both are determined to win. This 






62 


DRAMA 


means that the conflict will be intense and evenly 
balanced. As a result, the uncertainty as to which 
side will win is pronounced. There would be no 
suspense, for example, if the visiting team were 
so weak that the home team made all the points. 
Here is really the technical secret for suspense— 
an intense, evenly balanced conflict. 

Suspense in creative writing grips and holds the 
interest of the audience just as it does in a game of 
sport. The writer who captures the secret of at¬ 
taining it is on the highway to success. What is 
suspense? It is a feeling of uncertainty on the part 
of the audience in regard to the outcome. But mere 
uncertainty is not sufficient; it must be emotional 
uncertainty. To be dramatic it must have in it 
the definite emotions of hope and fear. 

When the villain is about to kidnap the heroine 
and is battering in the door to her room, and the 
hero is spurring his horse to her rescue—we hope 
the hero will be in time, we fear the villain will suc¬ 
ceed in breaking down the door before help arrives. 
This is a very crude example chosen purposely be¬ 
cause the audience reaction is so apparent. The same 
reaction (the arousing of the emotions hope and fear) 
is present in all dramatic suspense. 

Just how is suspense obtained by the writer? In 
much the same way as it was produced in the foot¬ 
ball game—by creating an intense, evenly balanced 
conflict over a significant and appealing objective. 
If the opposition to the principal character in achiev¬ 
ing his objective is not powerful, if he easily sur¬ 
mounts all obstacles that confront him, the audience 
grows tired of watching a one-sided fight and loses! 
all interest. In the same way, if the hero does not 
put up a stiff fight to overcome the odds against him, 



DRAMA 


63 


the antagonistic force wins easily and without a 
esperate struggle on the part of the protagonist 
he conflict holds no interest or suspense. 

At the risk of being tiresome, let us repeat these 
tatements in slightly different words. Whenever 
wo powerful forces, equal or almost equal in strength, 
re brought into conflict, there is uncertainty on the 
art of the spectator. But only when the spectator 
; made to care deeply concerning the fate of one of 
hese forces, is there emotional uncertainty or true 
uspense. We may, for instance, create a very in- 
mse, sustained struggle between two men for the 
and of a girl. Their actions may be novel and con- 
incing; there may be ingenious plot and counter¬ 
lot. The material may be so handled that the au- 
ience is kept guessing as to which man will win. 
\ut unless we make the audience want one of the 
len to win, there will be no emotional value to the 
aspense. 

Right here let us impress upon our minds the fact 
lat drama is not necessarily violent action, nor is 
Dnflict necessarily a fist fight or a duel. A folding 
f the arms or a bowing of the head may have a more 
owerful effect upon a reader or spectator than a 
irilling rescue. Two lifelong friends quarrel; one 
f them strikes the other and a fight follows. But 
appose that the man who is struck represses his 
nger because of the old friendship; he knows that 
e will be branded as a coward, yet he refuses to 
trike back. It is clear that this second handling 
f the material contains more drama than the first, 
'he drama of repressed action is generally more 
ffective than that of violent or dynamic action. 

We come finally to the third element in drama— 
eroic values. A story may be perfectly constructed, 






64 


DRAMA 


with an intense, evenly balanced conflict, but unlesi 
this conflict leads to an expression of heroic value: 
the story is mechanical and without soul. By heroi< 
values we mean the qualities in human nature tha 
mankind reveres and loves—courage, mercy, faith 
loyalty, the sense of humor, unselfishness, and so on 
In this same class belong the higher laws of the Uni 
verse and God. If we study the heroes of any nation 
the men who live in the hearts of its people, we fine 
that they are loved not because of their brains oi 
their intellectual superiority, but for their character 
which is always rich in heroic values. It is no 
Lincoln’s political foresight and statesmanship tha 
endear him to the American people, but his kindlj 
ness, his simplicity, his greatness of heart, and hi: 
sublime courage in taking upon himself at a timj 
of great peril the responsibility for the future of hi: 
people. 

The simplest form in which heroic values are usu 
ally expressed is in deeds of physical bravery. Th< 
hero rescues the heroine from a burning building 
or charges three stalwart ruffians and lays them ou 
like ten-pins. It is plain that this form, althougl 
not without a certain value in creative writing, i 
the crudest and most obvious way in which to por 
tray the quality of courage. The writer who studie 
the people around him will discover courage of i 
higher type in lives that to the undiscerning eye ar 
uninteresting and drab:—the courage of the stenog 
rapher or the shop girl who is needed by her love* 
ones at home, but whose pay check is needed worse 
the courage of the man who smiles to hide the hur 
when he learns that his friend has played the traitoi 
The student of human nature will find the othe 
heroic values also:—the faith of a mother, of a chile 


DRAMA 


65 


the loyalty of a casual friend at a time when life¬ 
long friends desert. It is here are found the story 
germs that fire the imagination. 

A characteristic of heroic values is that, to be 
effective either in fiction or photoplay, they must 
be expressed in action. Keep in mind that action 
may be expressed in an attitude, a gesture, an ex¬ 
pression of features, or by perfect inactivity when 
such inactivity is significant. The point is that a 
| character to reveal admirable qualities above the 
ordinary must do so by his reactions to outside 
influences of people and circumstances. You may 
tell us that Reginald is vain, and we shall half- 
believe you; but if you tell us that Reginald is brave 
or generous or tolerant, we shall withhold our assent 
until he proves it. 

“The Shame-Dance,” by Wilbur Daniel Steele, 
reprinted in O’Brien’s “The Best Short Stories of 
1921,” is the story of a guttersnipe of New York, 
who is stranded in the South Sea Islands, sees a 
native woman dancing a wonderful new dance, and 
conceives the biggest idea of his adventurous life— 
to take this woman back to the States and make a 
fortune from her ability. The woman falls in love 
with him. He murders four men to get her, abandons 
the rich island of which he is the ruler, and arrives 
with the woman, both in rags, at a lonely railroad 
station on the plains of Colorado—to learn from an 
old phonograph record that the wonderful new dance 
is ancient history, the Shimmy. A good story, re¬ 
markably well handled. But Mr. Steele has put 
into this story one poignant touch that makes the 
technical excellence seem insignificant. When the 
man learns that his big idea, for which he has starved, 

I for which he has waded through “seas o’ blood, 






66 


DRAMA 


is a bubble, he sits down in a heap, a broken man. 
Here is the poignant touch, expressed in the ver¬ 
nacular of the telegraph operator: 

" 'There he sits till daylight, and the nigger 
woman, with the horse blanket on again, she 
sits there beside him, holdin’ his hand.’ 

" 'What’s up with him? I asked her.’ 

" 'She says somethin’ in Mexican—or some 
language, anyway. But I see she don’t know 
any more’n me.—It’s just like this. The cur¬ 
rent’s gone out of the wire. Last I see of ’em, 
she’s leadin’ him off in the sunrise toward the 
box cars—leadin’ him by the hand.’ ” 

That woman of the South Seas, who didn’t know 
what it was all about, at least knew how to love . 

"The Loves of Pharaoh,’’ a Lubitsch production, 
is a photoplay dealing with ancient Egypt. Pharaoh 
Amenes, the most powerful ruler of the world at 
that time, tries in vain to win the love of a slave 
girl, throws his country into a desperate war be¬ 
cause of her, is defeated in battle and stripped of his 
royal insignia, and crawls back to his city walls mor¬ 
tally wounded. He knocks at one of the massive 
gates. His own guards jeer at his announcement that 
he is Pharaoh Amenes. With ribald laughter and 
coarse jest, they pull him inside and clap a bowl of 
wine over his head for a crown. He is rescued by his 
Prime Minister. Disdaining the help of the min¬ 
ister, Pharaoh doggedly makes his way to his empty 
throne room, staggers up the steps, seats himself on 
the throne with the last remnants of his strength,— 
and topples forward dead. The contrast between 
the despotic, cruel tyrant, with the world at his 
feet, and the wretch that crawls back to be mal¬ 
treated by his own servants is powerful. But it is 


DRAMA 


67 


>t alone the contrast that is dramatic. Fate deals 
is arrogant ruler blow after blow until he is de¬ 
fying of pity from the lowest beggar in the land, 
pt never once does Pharaoh Amenes cringe or ask 
r pity. Never once does he lose the touch of 
ajesty that belongs to him. He goes down to 
feat and death with a last kingly gesture. The 
al drama that grips the heart of the audience lies 
the expression of the character’s heroic qualities— 
s gameness, his grit, his indomitable courage in 
e face of adversity. 

Plot 

The technical form by which the three elements 
Drama—Conflict, Suspense, and Heroic Values— 
i presented is called Plot. Plot is the mechanical 
•angement of the parts of the story. It is an ar- 
igement of selected incidents in such fashion that 
dr effects are cumulative—that is, each adds its 
ight to that of the others—to produce one final, 
werful effect. 

An incident is a minor happening, an event that 
3 no great value if detached from the other events 
> the story. An incident has two main uses. The 
nt is to help in building up characterization. The 
eond is to help in building up to a dramatic sit- 
[ tion. 

A dramatic situation is a predicament confronting 
. character, that forces him to make a difficult 
lvision; or it is a serious obstacle that threatens 
b character’s purpose or happiness. 

In “Tol’able David” the coming of the three 
iminal Hatburns, to the Kinemon neighborhood, 
b killing of Allen’s dog, the crippling of Allen, 





68 


DRAMA 


and the death of Hunter Kinemon are incide 
and minor situations that build up to the first ma 
situation involving David. Note the cause c 
effect; how one incident leads into another:—1 
killing of the dog brings about the crippling of All 
which in turn brings about the death of the father; a 
with the death of Hunter Kinemon a heavy respor 
bility suddenly descends upon the shoulders of Dav 
the principal character. Honor, public opinion, 
desire to be regarded as a man,—everything demar 
that he kill the three Hatburns. Here enters 
new complication—the plea of the mother that 
must care for her and his helpless brother. This 
the highest point of suspense in the situation. Wf 
will David do? Which course will he follow? T 
forces or emotions at war within him have reach 
a point where some adjustment is necessary. T 
highest point of suspense, involving a vital change 
the fortunes of the character, is called the crisis, 

If the adjustment of the forces does not decisive 
end the struggle, the story must go on through c 
or more situations until the highest crisis is reach< 
the adjustment of which definitely gives victory 
one side or the other. This final crisis is called 1 
climax. 

David’s love for his mother and Allen conqu 
his hatred of the Hatburns, and he stifles his des 
for vengeance. But this decision makes it nec 
sary for the story to go on. An issue has been rais 
a crime committed, that demands settlement eve 
ually. Other situations arise, the final one being tlj 
which begins with the incident of the lost mail b . 

The climax occurs during the fight in the H 
burn cabin. The conflicting factions—David and j 
Hatburns—have come to grips at last. There can 



DRAMA 


69 


o further compromise or postponing of the set- 
ement. The struggle must end now one way or 
le other. Because of the terrible odds against him 
appears certain that David will be killed. Sus- 
ense here reaches its highest pitch. 


The action immediately following the climax is 
jailed by various names, the ending , the denoue¬ 
ment , or the solution of the story problem. In this 
:tion it is made plain that the principal character-or 
le antagonistic force has won the objective. When 
'^avid staggers out of the cabin with the mail bag 
n his shoulders, the dramatic conflict is ended, 
he coming of Esther and the villagers, with their 
^cognition of him as a hero and a man, is the solu- 
on or denouement. David has achieved his ob- 
;ctive. 

When we come to examine the different story 
>rms, we see that the spoken drama and the photo- 
lay are the only ones that follow the foregoing 
ramatic pattern with any degree of consistency, 
iction may or may not be dramatic; the photoplay 
\ust be dramatic, with the elements of conflict, 
ispense, and heroic values clearly in evidence, 
or does fiction, even when it is dramatic, employ 
re various elements in the same way as does the 
:reen story, as we shall see by a close analysis of 
They Grind Exceeding Small.” 

In the beginning of the story the narrator, as he 
Dmes down the hill to ride to town with Hazen 
finch, explains that he has been watching the 
loney lender with the same fascination that he 
ould watch a man walking a tight-rope above Ni- 
gara, a man staring some great catastrophe in the 
ice. He states that for such aman as Kinch to 
ve and grow great and prosper is not fitting. He 



70 


DRAMA 


wonders if God really dwells among'these hills ar 
what He thinks of Hazen Kinch. Again, when Kinc 
strikes the mare, the narrator explains that he mig] 
have interfered, but that something impelled hi; 
to keep his hands off. Likewise, when the mone 
lender steals the dollar from Marshey, the narrate 
is minded to do violence to Kinch but a deep< 
impulse stays him. Once more, when he sees Marshe 
rebuffed by the druggist, the narrator tells us: 

“It was my impulse to give him the dolk 
he needed, but I did not do it. An overpowerin 
compulsion bade me keep my hands off in th 
matter. I did not know what I expected, bi 
I felt the imminence of the fates. When 
went out into the snow it seemed to me th 
groan of the gale was like the slow grind c 
millstones, one upon the other.” . 

Yet, again, when the wife of Hazen Kinch ar 
nounces that the boy is dead, the narrator state* 
“I felt myself breathe deeply, almost with relie 
The thing for which I had waited—it had come. 
When the wife tells of Marshey’s return without th 
medicine and adds that even then the baby coul 
have been saved, the narrator tells us that he ur 
derstood in that moment ‘The workings of the mil 
of the gods.” And finally, after Kinch has gone t 
pieces and has screamed, the narrator on his wa 
home pauses to look back at the silent house ( 
Hazen Kinch and realizes that there is “a ju* 
and brooding God among these hills.” 

The principal character in the story is Hazel 
Kinch. The antagonistic force is Fate or God 
Kinch cannot be said to have a purpose or an ol 
jective toward which he is working. The purpo; 


DRAMA 


71 


longs to the antagonistic force; the objective 
vard which the story drives is the punishment of 
izen Kinch by a just and avenging God. The con- 
:t is introduced early by foreshadowing the catas- 
)phe awaiting the money lender. It can easily 
seen that, while Kinch has no dramatic objective, 

> actions throughout the major portion of the 
iry are part of the conflict. The antagonistic 
fee does not act until the climax, but its presence 
d power is kept alive in the mind of the reader, 
p suspense is maintained, by the frequent com- 
jints of the narrator, which we have listed above, 
e suspense is represented by the ever increasing 
flstence in the reader’s mind of the questions: 
fill God punish Kinch? How will He punish 
n?” 

It is difficult at first glance to reconcile the prin- 
B ties we laid down concerning conflict,—namely, 

1 it it must be intense and evenly balanced— 
\ :h the short-story under discussion. But a glimpse 
the reader’s hidden reactions will show that the 
i nciples are present. It is needless to state that 
h reader himself does not analyze his reactions 
il emotions as we intend to do. 

The reader realizes that Kinch, by his avaricious 
i.elty, is offending God. The fact that God makes 
i move to punish the man until the climax intensi- 
<5 the effect of the money lender’s offenses. This 
u ik of initiative on the part of the antagonistic 
ice gives the impression of extreme power to the 
(ive force. How then is there intense and well 
danced conflict? It would appear that the struggle 
Very much one-sided. The truth is that through¬ 
out ; the main portion of the story there is no outward 
Gression of conflict. It is assumed or taken for 



72 


DRAMA 


granted by the reader that the antagonistic fo 
is at work behind the scenes as it were. Subo 
sciously he knows that God is all-powerful. Her 
it was necessary to make the active force—Kind 
seem almost invincible. That is to say, the autl 
made his opposing forces as nearly equal as possil 
He has suggested the conflict. The constant allusic 
of the narrator to the nameless power that ho 
him back from interfering, strengthen and inter 
fy the impression of unseen conflict. 

We find but one dramatic situation in the sto 
but one place where the principal character is c< 
fronted by a serious obstacle to his happiness, 
begins with the announcement of the boy’s dea 
and ends with Kinch’s scream. The opposing for* 
come together in this situation with sudden sho< 
and the issue is decided swiftly. 

The heroic values expressed are those of the higl 
laws we have mentioned—in this instance the \ 
tience, the terrible exactness, the inevitableness, 
God’s justice. 

In discussing the use of the elements of drama a 
plot in fiction in contrast to their use in the pho 
play, we shall refer frequently to the analysis ji 
made. 

The first reference is to the fact that the wri 
of “They Grind Exceeding Small’’ has arom 
suspense without the use of visible conflict, 
has suggested the conflict by giving the comme 
of the narrator, and has prevented the antagonh 
force from manifesting itself in action until : 
climax. Withholding such action makes for the < 
ment of surprise, which is a dramatic effect that < 
be made extremely powerful. The fiction wr: 



DRAMA 


73 


spends for his effects upon surprise to a much 
eater extent than does the photoplay writer. 

The writer of the screen story must present his 
mflict by definite action, with the antagonistic 
rce exerting itself to produce effects that can be 
fen. The usual method of objectifying the con- 
jet, or making it visible, in the screen story is 
rough the use of a personal antagonist. The sim- 
ified formula runs as follows: » 

The protagonist, or sympathetic character, wants 
me one thing more than he wants anything else 
the world. The obtaining of this 1 ‘something” 
his dramatic objective. The antagonist, or “vil- 
in,” is a second character who wants that same 
ing or who is vitally interested in preventing the 
st character from getting it. Conflict naturally 
Hows, with each character doing specific things 
win. This struggle between the two most im- 
•rtant characters, which is called the central line 
conflict , must run through the story like a back- 
ne. It is the basic part of the structure. Minor 
aracters and their motives are introduced to 
rnish complications, but they are kept rigidly 
bordinated and are made to contribute to the 
velopment and advance of the main action. To 
is formula must be added the love element, which 
almost imperative in a story for the screen. 

This simplified formula is generally, but not 
ways, used by the photoplay writer. The film 
rsion of * ‘Without Benefit of Clergy,” Kipling’s 
asterpiece, is one of the exceptions. In neither the 
ort-story nor the photoplay is there a personal 
tagonist. The conflict is similar to that in Ben 
nes Williams’ story in that the antagonistic force 
Fate. But there is a big difference in that the most 



74 


DRAMA 


intense sympathy is aroused for the human cl 
acters of Kipling’s story, while Fate is represen 
as merciless and inexorable. Briefly the coni 
is the desperate struggle of an Englishman am 
native girl of India to keep and enjoy the great 1 
they bear each other, in the face of rigid so 
customs and an apparently wrathful and malign 
Fate. The antagonistic force, in the form of fe 
and cholera, acts definitely by taking first the b; 
and then the woman. Because of this active c 
flict, expressed in visible effects, it was possible 
film the story. 

Suspense, in both fiction and photoplay, is crea 
by introducing a menace to the happiness or 
jective of the sympathetic character. In “T1 
Grind Exceeding Small” the menace to the object 
(to punish Hazen Kinch) lies in the seemingly 
solute immunity with which the money lender 
capes punishment. In Without Benefit of Cleq; 
the menace to the happiness of the two lovers is 
evident that it is needless to point it out. The m 
real and serious the writer can make this mens 
the greater will be the emotional reaction of 
reader or spectator. 

The photodrama has developed its technique t 
remarkable degree in the short time of its exister 
Because of certain limitations and advantages 
the medium, suspense is one of the elements u 
which the screen writer has concentrated. He 
studied it, analyzed it carefully from differ 
angles, until he has developed the technique of \ 
ducing it to a much higher degree than ever attai 
in literature. As a result, a marked influence 
exerted by the screen in this respect upon moc 
fiction. In certain types of short-stories and no 



DRAMA 


75 


pf the present day we see suspense handled, not ac¬ 
cording to the old established methods of fiction 
Writing, but after the new technique developed by 
the photodrama. 

After suspense has been aroused by creating a 
menace to the happiness of the sympathetic char¬ 
acter, the screen writer reveals that menace plainly 
to the spectators, and intensifies its effects, by using 
the technical device known as foreknowledge. Fore¬ 
knowledge is significant information made known 
[to the audience, but hidden from certain characters 
jin the play. Its effect upon the audience may be 
illustrated by an analogy. 

If I am knocked down by an automobile, my 
[nervous system receives a shock, irrespective of 
whether I am bodily injured or not. If, however, 
I could in some way have foreknowledge of the 
iaccident a week before it occurs, I should in all pro- 
jbability be a nervous wreck from worry and suspense 
long before the accident arrived. 

To illustrate the use of foreknowledge, and also 
to show the typical method of handling a given 
situation by the fiction writer and the photoplay 
writer respectively, consider the two following ver¬ 
sions of the same material: 

The principal character receives a note from the 
girl he loves, asking him to meet her at a certain 
spot in the woods. The audience, while following 
the young man to the appointed place, may feel 
curiosity as to what- the girl wants and why she 
selected such an hour and such a spot, but as there 
is no menace apparent, there would be no suspense. 
The fiction writer would create suspense by sug¬ 
gesting the menace. The man’s thoughts, as he 


76 


DRAMA 


walks along, might dwell on a veiled threat utterec 
the previous day by the rival, or on certain furtiv< 
and suspicious actions on the part of that rival 
He feels that there is something in the wind, som( 
plot afoot against him. What it is he does not know 
The menace is felt; and this feeling of menace is 
duplicated in the reader through suggestion. Wher 
the hero arrives at the appointed place, he is sei 
upon by the rival and a desperate fight follows 
Here we have surprise, with the menace revealing 
itself with an abrupt shock. Later the young mar 
discovers how the rival learned of the rendezvous 

The screen writer creates his suspense, and in¬ 
tensifies it, not by suggesting the menace, but b> 
showing it to the spectators, plainly and unmis¬ 
takably. He would handle the situation something 
like this: 

Immediately after the girl’s note is delivered, the 
audience sees the rival calling on the girl. He learns 
of the proposed meeting, devises some clever wa) 
of detaining the girl, goes to the rendezvous in the 
woods, and lies in ambush with a club. As the spec¬ 
tators now watch the hero approaching the spol 
where he expects to meet his sweetheart, they are 
keenly aware of the danger that threatens him. As 
he comes nearer and nearer to the spot where the 
rival lies concealed, their suspense increases. Ir 
this handling of the material for the screen, the men¬ 
ace to the character’s happiness has not been mad( 
any greater than it was in the fiction treatment, bui 
the suspense arising from it. has been made mon 
intense. 

The second point to be noted in our analysis of th< 
story about Hazen Kinch is that the whole of th< 
action revolves around one situation. A littli 


DRAMA 


77 


hought will show that there is not nearly enough 
laterial here for a five or six reel picture, even if 
hat material were suitable for screen purposes, 
"he average program picture must have at least 
hree major, or important situations, the second 
leveloping from the first, and the third from the 
econd. Each of these three must be led up to by 
everal minor situations. The one and two reel plays, 
or the reason that their action is much more rapid 
han the longer pictures, will be found to have al- 
host as many situations. 

The last point to be referred to in our analysis of 
‘They Grind Exceeding Small” is that no heroic 
r alues are shown in the principal character. With 
. man so thoroughly despicable as Hazen Kinch, 
he sympathies of the reader are all with the antag¬ 
onistic force. Such a story, where the effect of the 
ntagonistic force is not seen until the climax, cannot 
>e presented successfully on the screen. The reader 
an carry a concept of God or Fate in his mind, but 
he spectator of the screen story must see the sym¬ 
pathetic force personified in human form, and he 
bust see the antagonistic force, if not personified, 
t least expressed in definite action. 

Here a question arises. It may be asked how we 
econcile the characterization of Hazen Kinch, who 
ire have said is thoroughly despicable, with our 
aw of characterization which states that our people 
nust be human and that to be human they cannot 
>e “all bad.” The author has made Kinch human 
>y giving him a great love for his crippled boy. The 
eader realizes the humanness of it. But and here 
dr. Williams has shown his consummate artistry— 
his love of Kinch for his son is not appealing. It 
s made real by the money lender’s actions, but it 



78 


DRAMA 


arouses no sympathetic response in the reader fc 
two reasons. The first is that the child is repulsiv 
because of his sullenness, the evil malevolence i] 
his eyes. The narrator tells us: “I have sometime 
thought the grey devils must have left just sud 
hate-bred babes as this in France. The women o 
the neighborhood sometimes said he would be bette 
dead.” The second reason is that the boy is kep 
out of the story as much as possible. 

While the total lack of sympathetic appeal in thi 
character of Hazen Kinch makes the story as no’v 
handled unsuitable for the screen, we have, never 
theless, what are known as “heavy lead” picture; 
in which the leading character is • one whose evi 
nature predominates over his better nature. “Thi 
Loves of Pharaoh” is an example. But always, i 
the picture is successful, this character possessei 
some heroic quality strongly accentuated and plainly 
revealed. As a spectator, I may firmly desire tha 
he fail in his purpose, I may detest his selfishness 
or his brutality, or his lustfulness, but if he shows m< 
one admirable trait strongly emphasized, I shall re¬ 
joice in his regeneration—or, if he goes down to de¬ 
feat like Pharaoh Amenes, I shall be moved by pity 
by regret, and by a sense of tragedy. How can such c 
man, even though he has heroic qualities to offset hi* 
baseness, have the power to arouse any sympath) 
in me? Because he is so human , because in him ] 
see myself. His qualities are my qualities, witl 
but a different emphasis. 

In summing up our chapter on Drama, let u; 
first repeat the definition we formulated. Drama i 
the representation in action of human desires an( 
motives in an emotional conflict. 


DRAMA 


79 


We learned that the three elements of Drama are 
inflict, Suspense , and Heroic Values. 

- Conflict is the basis of drama for the reason that 
j lies so close to life itself and is so intimately a 
irt of human existence. It may be external or 
ternal. In both instances it must, to serve ar¬ 
ctic purposes, lead to action. 

Suspense' is a feeling of emotional uncertainty on 
e part of the reader or spectator in regard to the 
itcome of the struggle. It is achieved by creating 
l intense, evenly balanced conflict between a sym- 
ithetic force and one that is not sympathetic. 
Heroic Values are the qualities in human nature, 
embodied in higher laws, that mankind reveres 
id loves. Without their presence in the story, 
nflict becomes mechanical. They must be ex- 
•essed in action, whether in fiction or photoplay. 
We then analyzed the mechanics of Plot —the 
chnical form by which the three elements of drama 
e presented most effectively. Plot construction 
kes the form of incidents (or minor happenings), 
iding to situations (or serious predicaments), 
at develop into crises (or high points of suspense), 
e most important of which is the climax (the point 
here final adjustment of the struggle is demanded), 
lich in turn brings about the denouement (or solu- 
3n of the story problem). 

In contrasting the fiction writer’s method of achiev- 
g dramatic effects with the method employed by 
le screen writer, we analyzed the story of Hazen 
inch. We learned that the fiction writer may 
ouse suspense through suggested conflict, in which 
lily one of the two opposed forces is active. To 
i-esent conflict on the screen, the writer must pre- 
nt both forces manifesting themselves in visible 






80 


DRAMA 


action. Both fiction writer and photoplaywrigi 
arouse suspense by creating a menace to the syr 
pathetic character. 

We learned further that the fiction writer depem 
for his effects upon surprise to a greater extei 
than does the screen writer. Also, he may produ 
other dramatic effects through methods unavailab 
to the screen writer—suspense, for instance, whi( 
he may obtain through direct presentation of tl 
thoughts and feelings of his characters. The scree 
writer depends more upon suspense than upc 
surprise. He has developed to a high degree tl 
technical device known as foreknowledge by whic 
he intensifies suspense through letting the audiem 
know in advance the exact seriousness of the menac 

Two more differences were noted in our analysi 
The first was that one situation may be enough f< 
a short-story, but that the photoplay must bui; 
through a series of situations rising in pitch to 
climax. The second difference was that a photopk 
cannot be successful, as a short-story can, with 
wholly unsympathetic character dominating tl 
action. 

In conclusion, we shall emphasize the idea in 01 
chapter that seems most vital. Although conflic 
suspense, and technical form are necessary to pr 
duce drama, they are without value unless they le£ 
to the revelation of those qualities in human natu 
and life that call forth the admiration and reveren 
of mankind. If the secret of arousing emotion 
response in an audience can be captured in a phras 
it is this: the expression of heroic values. 


CHAPTER V 


MOTIVATION 

We intend in this chapter to show—first, by means 
examples, that action can be made convincing 
dy through careful attention to motivation; 
cond, the technical devices of handling motiva- 
)n used by the writer to intensify drama; and third, 
e difference in treatment of motivation employed 
/ novelist, short-story writer, and screen writer. 

Motivation in a story is the handling of the causes 
ihind our dramatic effects; it is the element of 
ory construction by which the writer makes his 
amatic effects reasonable and acceptable to the 
idience. 

The creative writer, with his ultimate purpose of 
ousing the emotions of his audience, tries specifi- 
ly to make them weep, to grip their hearts with 
ty, to thrill them, to make them laugh, and fear, 
id shed tears of joy. He strives to do these things 
j means of the actions of his characters. He makes 
s characters struggle, and suffer and win and lose 
their fight for happiness. Every act of every 
laracter may be regarded as an effect. But behind 
le plotting of the “villain,” the weeping of the 
sroine, the courageous deeds of the hero, lie causes — 
Liman motives. Even when one of the prime 
ictors in the story is Fate, or circumstance, or a 
[gher law of life, we invest this impersonal “char¬ 
ter” with human attributes—cruelty, vengeful- 
81 



82 


MOTIVATION 


ness, mercy, justness, etc. The passions and desir 
of men and women, their loves and hates, the 
hopes and fears, their wants and purposes, the 
dreams and their despairs—these are the mainsprin 
of the story, the forces that impel the characters 
action. With these forces our subject of motiv 
tion deals. 

Action, no matter how dramatic it may be i 
herently, will not produce a dramatic effect if it 
not convincing and probable to the reader or spe 
tator. 

In life we are prone to accept facts without que 
tion, whether we know the causes or not. In a stor 
however, we will not accept facts without amp 
reason. We read in a newspaper that an apparent 
good and law-abiding citizen has shot another a 
parently good citizen. We may be curious as 
why the murder was committed but, in the evei 
that our curiosity is not satisfied, we do not questic 
the fact of the crime. We do not feel that it is ir 
probable or false. But if a writer should put sue 
action into a story without carefully making pla 
why this law-abiding citizen kills another, we shou 
reject it unconditionally as untrue to life. It wou 
strike us as illogical and monstrous. Let us see wh 

A fact is a detached, concrete fragment of life- 
an effect presented to us without the cause. A tru 
is an abstract law of life—a cause which produc 
effects. The incident mentioned in the foregoii 
paragraph is a fact. When the writer presents th 
fact, .without the reasons behind it, the inferen 
it carries is that law-abiding citizens shoot 01 
another. This obviously is untrue to life, and i 
will not accept it. But if the writer shows us th 



MOTIVATION 


83 


the first citizen was hot-tempered and extremely 
iealous of his wife, that the two men quarreled over 
a business deal, that the wife of the first man tried 
to placate them and finally appealed to the second 
man, that the husband misconstrued their actions 
as revealing previous intimacy, etc.—if, in a word, 
the writer goes behind the effect to the causes, we 
will accept the shooting as convincing and true to 
life. He will be presenting, not the fact of the murder, 
but the truth that a man, given certain traits, will, 
under certain conditions, commit murder. 

The events of life almost never come under our 
observation accompanied by their causes. Facts are 
apparent; truths are hidden. It follows, then, that 
a literal transcript of events that actually occurred 
will not give the impression of truth or reality to 
the audience. A “slice of life” is not dramatic or 
artistic until it has been modelled and formed and 
inked definitely with its antecedent causes. This 
s one reason that newspapers, which deal with facts, 
are old a few hours after they are off the press, and 
that the most accurate account of a great catas¬ 
trophe or an intensely human incident from life, 
Written by a newspaper reporter, is not handed down 
is literature. Let us firmly fix in our minds that, 
? or the purpose of creative writing , an incident or event 
Is not true simply because we saw it happen , or because 
\t happened to us. 

The writer, then, in order to give the illusion of 
*eality to the actions of his characters, must present 
adequate cause for that action in the form of plaus- 
ble motives. It may be well here, in order to show 
aow motivation is worked out by the practical 
writer, to take a fact or incident from life and to 
use our imagination upon it. 



84 


MOTIVATION 


Slim Ranthers, a young cattleman, hunted thre< 
days in the hills for a lost horse. He found it limping 
from a barbed wire cut. He discovered that thi 
wound had been bandaged with a handkerchie 
which he recognized as belonging to Livingston 
a man he knew. The next time the two men me 
Slim thanked Livingston. 

The foregoing facts occurred in the mountains o 
Idaho. As fiction, however, they are not dramatic 
they are even ridiculous, for men in the cattle countr) 
do not go about tying up the legs of range stock witi 
their handkerchiefs. But by using the imaginatior 
we can conceive causes—motives—behind the actior 
depicted, that will make the incidents not only 
convincing but full of dramatic possibilities. We 
can make the discovery of the handkerchief so vita! 
and full of meaning that instead of resulting in the 
present tame ending, it leads to a meeting betweer 
the two men that is full of emotional value. Let us 
first introduce conflict which we know is the first 
element of drama. 

Slim and Livingston are enemies; they hate each 
other. With this simple motivation we begin tc 
see the dramatic possibilities in Slim’s discovery 
that his enemy has done him a kindness. But the 
reasons—the motives—behind this enmity must be 
revealed in order to make it convincing and real 
Suppose that Livingston is the watermaster for c 
new irrigation project that will destroy Slim’i 
range for grazing purposes. Slim is a likeable sor 
of fellow, but he cannot adjust himself to the ad 
vance of civilization. He has fought desperatel; 
to make this new irrigation project fail, has don 
definite things to injure Livingston. He has broodel 
over his wrongs until he now looks upon Livingsto i 


MOTIVATION 


85 


as responsible for all the trouble. The watermaster 
has come to symbolize the new order of things 
that is to trample underfoot the old life that Slim 
loves. 

Let us say that Livingston is a cold, judicial man, 
with intense convictions concerning right and wrong, 
absolutely just according to his own narrow stand¬ 
ards of justice, unyielding when he has once formed 
an opinion. He is sincere in looking upon Slim 
as an outlaw, as hopeless of redemption as the 
ackrabbits and the coyotes. He has twice had 
Slim arrested, but has been unable to secure a con¬ 
duction. He now has a plan on foot that, if suc- 
:essful, will result in the evidence needed to send 
Slim to prison. 

But why does Livingston bandage the horse’s 
vound? Why should this cold, unemotional man 
day nurse to the horse of the man he hates? Wouldn’t 
his very hatred prevent his doing such an act? 
Vnother motive, or cause, is needed, that will coun- 
erbalance his hatred for the moment and make the 
iction logical. Let us say that Livingston, for all 
iis sternness and lack of sympathy for his fellow- 
nen, has a very great affection for horses. He loves 
torses better than he loves human beings. This 
>articular animal is a beautiful mare that Livingston 
tas formed a violent attachment for and that he 
las tried to buy from Slim. 

As Slim is logically the principal character, his 
aotives will deserve special attention. Suppose that 
his beautiful mare, which he calls Meadowlark, 
3 his pride and his love. He has no relatives. His 
>rother cattlemen have deserted him by buying 
^ater rights in the new irrigation project and be- 




86 


MOTIVATION 


coming farmers. All the affection of his nature ha 
centered in Meadowlark. Meadowlark has escape* 
from the corral this morning while Slim was absent 
It is the first time she has been loose in the hills 
and the mountain lions are particularly bad thi 
spring. When Slim discovers her escape he is ii 
an agony of fear. 

How can we further establish to the audienci 
Slim’s hate for Livingston? The more powerful wi 
can make it, the greater will be the shock to hin 
when he discovers that Livingston has befriendec 
Meadowlark. Suppose that, while Slim is feverishb 
hunting for the mare, he sees Livingston with a part} 
of his men cutting logs. Livingston is conspicuou: 
by the blue silk handkerchief he wears around hi: 
neck. Slim avoids the party, continuing his search 
his mind brooding over his wrongs. 

As twilight deepens, he hears the wagons of Liv¬ 
ingston and his men returning. The thought sud¬ 
denly strikes him that perhaps Livingston (as pari 
of his plan to persecute Slim) was the one thal 
turned Meadowlark loose. The thought is the sparl 
necessary to enrage his already fevered brain. He 
crouches behind a boulder and trains his rifle or 
the road where the wagons must pass. The firsl 
wagon comes into view. In the dusk Slim cannol 
distinguish the features of the driver. But this he 
considers unimportant. He will know his man, anc 
will press the trigger, when he sees that blue sill 
handkerchief. One by one the wagons pass, but non* 
of the men wears the distinguishing mark of blue fo 
which he is looking. Slim gets to his feet, puzzled 
and beginning to realize the enormity of the thini 
he has been about to do, a feeling of loathing fo 
himself arises in him. 


MOTIVATION 


87 


Now, when he finds Meadowlark, whom he loves, 
th the blue silk handkerchief bandaging her 
>und, is the moment dramatic? 

It is dramatic, if we have done our work well, 
cause we have made real the surge of emotion 
at sweeps over Slim as he recognizes the hand- 
rchief. Through careful motivation we have 
fen significance to the actions of our characters, 
henever we can make real and convincing some 
ong emotion on the part of a character, we arouse 
c emotions of the audience—and this is our ulti- 
ite purpose. 

This bit of plot action would, of course, need am- 
fication. The story could not stop here. Slim’s 
bovery should be followed by some, decisive 
tion on his part, that bears directly upon his con- 
fct with Livingston. When the two men now meet, 

I will be a far different scene from that in which 
je man casually expresses his gratitude to the 
ler. 

We have said that the action in a story, no matter 
w dramatic it may be intrinsically, is ineffective 
it is not convincing. In the foregoing example 
have tried to make the action convincing and 
nificant by establishing human, appealing motives 
liind it. Since the lack of convincingness is so 
en the cause of the failure of what the inexperienced 
iter considers his “big” scenes, the question of 
)bability deserves further attention. 

Let us consider what we think is a big climax, 
r principal character, to save his younger brother 
m prison, takes the latter’s crime of embezzlement 
on his own shoulders and is sent to prison. We 
i to ourselves: “This is an expression of heroic 



MOTIVATION 


values. It is an act of sacrifice. It is powerfu 
dramatic.” But unless we prepare for this act 
sacrifice by careful attention to motivation, it v 
very probably be sentimental and unreal. 

In the first flush of enthusiasm we indicate rapic 
the material that shall lead up to the big scene. 
The younger brother is a villain. He is cruel to ] 
wife and children. He gambles away his wages a 
does not provide for his family. The hero is 
upright young business man. He is deeply in lc 
with, and engaged to, a beautiful young girl. ] 
supports his sister-in-law and her children, and coi 
forts them whenever the younger brother goes < 
on one of his sprees. The brother goes from bad 
worse, despite the hero’s efforts to reform him, un 
he ends by embezzling a large sum of money. 

Shall we go on with the elaboration of this pic 
No, for we are paying no attention to the motrv 
necessary to make convincing such a climax as i 
have devised. If we have our big scene establishe 
the motivation and preparation in the precedii 
portion of the story must be designed with that t 
scene constantly in view. 

What is sacrifice—the heroic value we have c 
cided shall be portrayed in our climax? Sacrif] 
is the giving up of something we hold valuable 
precious for something worthier or nobler. To ta 
examples from everyday life—we give up a da; 
pleasure trip to read Shakespeare to a sick frier 
A wife gives up her monthly treat of going to t 
theatre to buy her husband a box of cigars. E 
suppose that, after reading our most treasur 
passages from Shakespeare all day, our sick frie 
informs us petulantly that he would have mil 


MOTIVATION 


89 


ferred our reading detective stories. And suppose 
wife later discovers her husband surreptitiously 
ing the box of cigars to the iceman. The 
rifice in each instance would appear absurd, 
uldn’t it? 

slow if the sacrifice of our principal character in 
ng to prison is to escape a like incongruity, we 
st make him an intelligent human being. The 
verful motive we have given him—love for his 
>ther—must not blind him to the other powerful 
•tives in his life, or to the dictates of common 
Lse. We have characterized the younger brother 
pretty much of a scoundrel. Can we make our 
lienee sympathize with the hero in his desire to 
re such a man? Such brotherly love is not normal 
life-like, as we shall see by asking the following 
estions: Is the hero really doing the brother any 
xl by saving him from prison? Isn’t he simply 
ing the brother a chance to go on with his crime? 
going to prison himself, isn’t the hero depriving 
p sister-in-law and her children of support? And, 
inting that the hero may have the right to do 
at he pleases with his own freedom, what right 
3 he to shatter the happiness of the beautiful girl 
whom he is engaged? Analyzed in this fashion, 
s plain that our big situation is going to be very 
convincing. In sketching the plot so hurriedly, 
haven’t taken the character’s other motives into 
:ount or weighed their importance. We shall 
ve to begin all over. 

[t will be remembered that the dramatic objective 
the sympathetic character must be worthwhile; 
must be appealing; the reader or spectator must 
nt the hero to win. Applying this principle to 
i example in hand, we see that to make the sac- 




90 


MOTIVATION 


rifice worthwhile, the younger brother must be w 
saving. We characterize him, then, not as an 
ancbout villain, but as a youth of great pron 
a rather lovable character with many admir 
qualities, but woefully weak. Let us say thai 
has a passion for gambling. He is human, foi 
realizes his weaknesses and feels remorse at 
bondage. His love for the hero is as great as 
hero’s love for him. Definite incidents are nec 
that conclusively prove this love on the part of 
younger brother—some act of generosity or here 
that puts the hero in his debt. 

The question of the hero’s fiancee would r 
special attention, for the love between man 
woman is normally stronger than the love betv 
brothers. Besides making this brotherly love 
real and appealing as possible, new complicat 
would have to be introduced in regard to the ] 
affair. Perhaps the hero knows that his fianc 
father is implicated in the embezzlement, and 1 
the arrest of the younger brother will mean 
arrest also of the girl’s father. And still the he 
motives would not be strong enough to wari 
his destroying the girl’s happiness. Perhaps 
girl’s mother is seriously ill; the arrest of the fai 
would result in her death. This last suggestio: 
not especially novel, but it will do for illustrat 
At any rate, we should have to strengthen the he 
motives to the point where his act of sacrifice wc 
be justified and heroic in appeal. Here, as in 
previous example, we cannot take the space to w 
out the exact action. 

The lack of probability is also frequently appai 
in the attempt to portray “sudden conversioi 
After showing and proving that a character i 


MOTIVATION 


91 


thorough-going scoundrel throughout four-fifths of 
the story, the writer tries to reform him in the last 
few pages. It is never convincing. We may con¬ 
vert a man who is evil, we may regenerate him com¬ 
pletely, but we cannot begin by establishing him as 
'utterly depraved. He must show very definitely in 
the early part of the story that he possesses the 
traits or motives that are later used to bring about 
his conversion. 

Suppose that our character has devised a plot 
ito force the heroine to marry him. Just as this 
plot is about to succeed, he has a change of heart 
and gives her up to the man she loves. This action 
can be made perfectly convincing and dramatic— 
if we prepare for it through careful motivation. 

Let us say that the motive prompting the heroic 
act is a sincere desire for the girl’s happiness. If 
we can make the reader or spectator believe that 
the man sincerely wishes the happiness of the girl, 
then the motive is adequate to produce the act of 
giving the girl to another. But we can’t “spring” 

: such a motive in the climax. 11 needs to be established 
in preparatory action. If we show the man as a 
typical villain, determined to marry the girl by fair 
means or foul, we are making real and convincing 
a powerful motive. The audience sees him dominated 
by this one desire—to possess the girl. For a new 
and unexpected motive (desire for her happiness) 
suddenly to appear from nowhere and prove more 
powerful than the one we have made real, is not 
logical or believable. This second motive would 
need to be made just as convincing as the first 
through incident and characterization. The action 
might take the form of a series of situations por¬ 
traying the gradual growth of the second motive 


92 


MOTIVATION 


and the attendant struggle between the two. There 
would be, not only action showing the man’s great 
desire to marry the girl, but action proving that he 
loves her in a nobler way, and that he is torn by the 
internal conflict of motives. 

Still another way in which we often disregard 
probability is in the use of coincidence. A coincidence 
is an event, significant to the plot action, that is 
brought about, not through the motivation of the 
characters or forces involved in the story, but through 
the intervention of chance or other outside agency. 
Its presence almost invariably destroys the illusion 
of reality; that is to say, it recalls the reader or 
spectator from the glamorous land of make-believe 
to which our story has transported him. It draws 
the attention of his critical faculties to the lack of 
logic in our story. Especially in handling events 
that have a vital part in solving the plot problem, 
we must use extreme care to see that proper motiva¬ 
tion and preparation are made. This will be made 
clear by the following example: 

A man sees a boy about ten years old playing in 
the streets; he is attracted by the lad, learns that the 
boy has no parents, and adopts him. As the opening 
of a story, no fault could be found with this material 
on the score of improbability. No plot problem or 
conflict has as yet been introduced; consequently 
the action depicted must be considered in the light 
of preparation for the problem. 

But suppose we were to handle the material in 
this fashion: Our story opens with the kidnapping 
of a baby. The frantic father devotes his life to 
searching for his boy. One day, after ten years of 
fruitless search, in a big city far removed from the 


MOTIVATION 


93 


one in which the kidnapping occurred, he sees a boy 
playing in the streets, etc. This boy turns out to 
be his long lost son. Here the finding of the boy 
would impress the audience as sheer coincidence. 
The meeting between the two, brought about through 
accident or chance, has the appearance of being 
dragged in by the author to bring about the desired 
[end. 

Coincidence is one of the weaknesses in story 
structure that a writer finds most difficult to detect 
in his own work, and one very easily pointed out by 
some one else. For this reason, the careful writer 
will do well to have his work read by friends and 
critics, and to pay marked attention to any criti¬ 
cism on this particular point. 

It may be laid down as a general rule that almost 
my event can be made convincing if given the 
croper motivation and preparation. In the great 
majority of published stories and produced pictures 
can be found events that are more or less unmoti¬ 
vated. The reason for this is that it is impossible 
:o give the complete causes behind every act and 
event. For instance, the ordinary, daily acts per- 
: ormed by people have causes behind them just as 
definite as those behind the most unusual and sig- 
lificant deeds, but it may safely be left to the au¬ 
dience to see the logic of accustomed action that 
leeds no explanation. 

Coincidence is not objectionable in the beginning 
}f a story. At this point the reader or spectator is 
willing to grant something in the way of probability. 
Neither is it so noticeable when the sweep of the 
dramatic action is powerful enough to counterbalance 
the lack of logic. But if the instances are too nu¬ 
merous, or too glaring, they are certain to ruin the 



94 


MOTIVATION 


illusion of reality. As creative writers, the thin] 
for us to do is to eliminate as many coincidences a 
we possibly can. Elimination of coincidence doe 
not necessarily mean that the event itself must b< 
cut out; it means rather that the event must be mad< 
plausible by proper motivation and preparation 

For example, a young man is seeking his sweet¬ 
heart from whom he has been separated. The happi 
ness of both depends upon their finding each other 
He drifts from one place to another always looking 
for the girl but without any clues as to her where¬ 
abouts. Finally, on the crowded sidewalk of a big 
city he comes face to face with her. This meeting 
would strike the audience as improbable and un¬ 
believable. A little thought would make it seem 
logical and natural. The young man, instead of 
drifting aimlessly, makes it a point to visit or com¬ 
municate with all the people who had ever known 
the girl. Finally he learns from a common friend 
that the girl has been seen or heard of in a certain 
city. The hero’s visit to this city is now motivated. 
Every city has some one corner that is passed sooner 
or later by all the inhabitants. The young man 
stations himself on this particular corner in this par¬ 
ticular city to watch. When the meeting takes place 
it is logical. 

Occasionally, however, one comes across a fact 
from real life that could never be made convincing 
in a serious story. For example, a recent news item 
stated that a man had been knocked down by an 
automobile in the downtown district of one of our 
largest cities, and that two years previous to this 
accident he had been injured in another street ac¬ 
cident by the same car . Here is a fact the causes o\ 
which would be mighty difficult to fathom, one that 


MOTIVATION 


95 


i obviously without value for either fiction or photo- 
lay, unless we make possible exception of the hu- 
lorous story. 

In discussing motivation thus far, we have as- 
[imed that the most important action of the fic- 
tious characters has already been determined upon 
y the writer, and that it is inherently dramatic, 
ut we must now go a little deeper into our subject, 
/e have said that action must be convincing, and 
bve seen how it is made so; but it does not follow 
pat because it is convincing it is necessarily dra- 
iatic. We shall now see that the way in which the 
riter handles the motivation of his characters not 
nly determines whether their actions are convincing 
r not, but has a vital bearing upon whether or not 
: is dramatic. 

There are two definite operations by which the 
riter handles motivation to produce drama. The 
rst is the deliberate making of the characters’ 
lotives, desires, and purposes as powerful as possible, 
his produces intense conflict, assuming that he 
as already conceived contrasting characters. 

| Let us suppose that we have created a set of char¬ 
ters—have visualized their physical appearance, 
leir mental traits, dominant characteristics and 
ttle peculiarities, likes and dislikes. We have drawn 
ur characters as best we can from life; and while 
tiey may be composite pictures of many different 
eople, with no actual prototypes in life, they are 
fe-like in their possession of typical and individual 
raits. We have a man in whom the good predomin- 
tes; this is our principal character or protagonist, 
or contrast we have one in whom the bad is upper¬ 
most; this is our antagonist. We have a heroine, 




96 


MOTIVATION 


lovable, wholesome, and yet human. And we ha^ 
our minor characters. 

These individuals have various wants and desire 
Not until we give them conflicting desires does dran 
become possible. Let us say that the two men wai 
the same girl. We now have conflicting motiv< 
and latent drama. But note that this dramat 
possibility does not become reality until we mat 
these conflicting motives so powerful that each ma 
is led to do decisive, significant things to gain h 
ends. (Remember that significant action does nc 
necessarily mean violent action.) This intensifyin 
of motives leads to the clash of forces that resull 
in drama. 

The writer whose stories are ‘ ‘almost good enough 
to be accepted but fail to get across because the 
are weak in conflict and dramatic situations, shoul 
try the experiment of intensifying the conflictin 
motives. By making the principal character war 
what he wants a hundred times more intently tha 
as first conceived by the writer, and by increasin 
a hundredfold the opposition to that character 
purpose (whether in the form of a ‘Villain” or a 
internal conflicting motive), intense conflict is a 
most certain to result. Keep in mind that it 
opposition is synonymous with the antagonist 
force, that is, the force which threatens the happinej 
of the sympathetic character. 

This intensifying process cannot be done m< 
chanically. We must study our characters unt 
we know them intimately. The more nearly we ca 
visualize them as flesh-and-blood people, and tl 
more sympathetically we can realize them as huma 
beings, the better able we shall be to make the 
motives intense enough to lead to dramatic actio: 


MOTIVATION 


97 


The second operation by which the writer handles 
i otivation to produce drama is the making of con- 
feting forces as nearly equal in strength as possible, 
his result is evenly balanced conflict. 

Let us devise a dramatic situation that will il¬ 
lustrate the intensifying and equalizing of opposed 
frees. For the sake of brevity and emphasis we 
fill make it melodramatic. 

The principal character, traveling through the 
voods to the settlement, arrives at the little clearing 
\here the girl he loves and her aged father live, 
le finds the cabin in flames, the old father dead on 
tie threshold. On a ridge in the distance, the young 
ran sees the villain with his henchmen carrying off 
t e girl. The hero drops his pack, tightens his belt, 
^ips his rifle, and dashes off in pursuit. 

Here we have a simple situation, melodramatic 
lrgely because the conflict is external or objective, 
let us see if we can make the situation more dra¬ 
matic by intensifying the conflicting forces. As it 
dw stands, the antagonistic force is entirely external, 
i the form of the villain, who has presented a defi- 
rte obstacle to the happiness of the hero. By intro- 
acing internal conflict we can intensify the an- 
tgonistic force and thus make the menace much 
rore serious,—something like this: 

The hero is traveling through the woods with his 
rother who is ill. He is making all haste to the 
ettlement where he may obtain the services of a 
pysician. They arrive at the little clearing to 
fid the cabin in flames as before and the villain in 
tie distance carrying off the girl. 

But our principal character at this point finds 
Imself in a predicament or dilemma. It is by no 




98 


MOTIVATION 


means certain that he will grip his trusty rifle ai 
dash off in pursuit of the villain. If he does, he w 
be leaving his sick mother alone and helpless in t 
woods. If he hurries to the settlement with I 
mother, he must leave his sweetheart to her fat 
The two motives—love for his mother, love for t] 
girl—are at war within him. Just how he extricat 
himself from the predicament is merely a matt 
of thought and patience on the part of the write 

The point to note is this: We have done tv 
things. We have intensified the antagonistic fore 
arrayed against our sympathetic character an 
as a result, the menace to his happiness is mue 
graver and arouses greater suspense. And we ha> 
equalized the opposed motives concerned in tl 
internal conflict to such an extent that there 
apparently no way out for the character. The fir 
of these operations needs no further commen 
but the second requires a few more words of expL 
nation. 

In order to produce the greatest suspense possibl 
we have made the “pull” exerted by the young man 
love for his mother equal in strength to that exerte 
by his love for the girl. If we had made the tw 
horns of the dilemma unequal in length, if we ha 
made one of the possible courses much more dai 
gerous to his happiness than the other, the situatic 
would have been greatly weakened. 

If, for instance, when the hero and his mothi 
arrived at the clearing they found the girl’s fathi 
weeping in the cabin doorway, there would be r 
great struggle on the hero’s part to reach a decisio 
The "pull” exerted by his love for his mother wou 
be comparatively weak. He would simply leave h 
mother at the cabin to be cared for by the old ma 


MOTIVATION 


99 


vhile he pursued the villain and rescued the girl, 
rhe situation would not be much different from the 
>riginal one. 

As a matter of fact, the opposing forces cannot 
)e exactly equal in strength; one of them must exert 
i little stronger pull on the character; or there will 
be a deadlock. But they must be so nearly equal 
hat they appear so—until we end the suspense by 
|Some new complication adequately prepared for, by 
ome brilliant or surprising action on the part of 
he protagonist, or by some other means. 

| It will be noted that in discussing our subject, 
lye have treated it with constant reference to action. 
SVe have assumed that action was the object of 
notivation. The reason for this is that motives 
/hich have no influence on the actions of the char- 
cters have no place in the true short-story, novel, 
r photoplay. They may be used in the sketch, the 
ssay, and other forms of writing. Just as effect 
lust be preceded by cause, so motives must be 
Allowed by action of some sort, or else they are 
leaningless. And as the most effective action for 
he purposes of the creative writer is dramatic 
ction, we have treated motivation as it is handled 
jy the writer who is trying to produce dramatic 
fleets. 

The short-story writer, because he interprets a 
arrow section of life, does not, within the confines 
f one story, deal with the multiplicity of motives 
hat the novelist does. Also, he presents his mo- 
ivation and preparation as he does his characteri- 
ation, in bold, brief strokes. He characterizes, it 
ill be remembered, by seizing upon one or two 
ominant traits and emphasizing them almost to 



100 


MOTIVATION 


the point of exaggeration in order to get a vivid 
striking picture. He motivates in much the sam 
manner. 

Cruelty, avarice, love for his boy—these are th 
only motives behind the actions of Hazen Kinch 
and they dominate him to the exclusion of all othe 
motives. The high lights of his character have beei 
thrown into bold relief to secure a particular effect 
Kinch, as he is now depicted in the short-story 
could not be made the principal character in a nove 
without appearing exaggerated and unreal, not onl} 
because of his characterization but because of hij 
motivation. 

The motivation behind the action of the gutter¬ 
snipe in Wilbur Daniel Steele’s/'The Shame-Dance’ 
is treated in like fashion. Every act of this charactei 
has behind it the driving force of a supreme desire— 
to make a big stake in New York by exhibiting the 
wonderful new dance he has discovered. He marches 
in a straight line for the thing he wants. 

The novelist would have softened the starkness 
of these motives. Kinch’s love for his boy, for in¬ 
stance, he would have dwelt upon, proving it rea! 
not only by the man’s actions but by an analysis 
of the underlying causes of the motives themselves— 
Kinch’s age, which partly explains the depth of hi: 
affection for an only child, his isolation from othe: 
human friendship, etc. The novelist would haw 
relieved the guttersnipe’s dominant motive of success 
perhaps by developing the love motive. In th 
short-story the reader assumes that the man in ; 
matter-of-fact sort of way loves the woman of th t 
South Seas. The novelist would not leave so mudi 
to assumption or inference; he would stress the man’ 



MOTIVATION 


101 


^actions to the woman’s love, even though they 
light be no stronger than those now inferred from 
le short-story. Let it be understood that the 
:rength of the dominant motive would not neces- 
irily be impaired by softening the clear-cut naked- 
ess of the outlines; it would acquire a depth and 
itensity to compensate for the loss in vividness, 
'o change our figure of speech, good motivation 
1 a short-story has the strength of a race horse, 
lat in a novel has the strength of the well bred 
raft horse. 

It was stated in our chapter on Characterization 
tiat in the modern short-story and photoplay, the 
Titer tries, so far as it is possible, to embody his 
haracterization in incidents that not only char- 
cterize his people, but that also give their motives 
nd advance the plot action. Characterization and 
lotivation are so closely related that it is impossible 
p separate them. Note how O. Henry, in ‘The 
op and the Anthem,” presents the dramatic ob- 
j:ctive of the principal character: 

i Soapy, a down-and-outer, after a miserable night 
<a a park bench, meditates on ways and means 
) escape the approaching rigors of winter. “Three 
:ionths on the Island was what his soul craved, 
hree months of assured board and bed and con- 
pnial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, 
semed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.” 
He scorned the provisions made in the name of 
(larity for the city’s dependents. In Soapy’s 
oinion the Law was more benign than Philan- 
liropy. There was an endless round of institutions. 
. . . on which he might set out and receive 

ldging and food accordant with the simple life. 



102 


MOTIVATION 


But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of chari 
are encumbered.” 

Looking at these few lines carefully, we see th 
not only do they give Soapy’s objective, but th( 
characterize him. We see something of the man 
inner nature. Soapy is pretty low down in the sea 
of human society, yet he possesses a peculiar twist( 
pride of his own, and is not without a sense of humi 
that prevents him from taking himself too serious! 

On the other hand, let us refer back to precedir 
pages. Kinch’s small economy in the matter of tl 
telephone, the way in which he got his wife and h 
attitude toward her, his cruel treatment of the mar 
his reason for accepting part payment of the intere; 
from the farmer, the reason for his anxiety to teL 
phone to his house—all of this significant detai 
which we said was used to characterize the mone 
lender, is also a part of the motivation. While j 
does not give any information as to Kinch’s plar 
or purposes, it serves as preparation for the actio 
that follows. His stealing the dollar from the po^ 
erty-stricken farmer would not be convincing did 
not know the extreme meanness and littleness < 
Kinch. His scream, which shows the collapse < 
his sanity, when he learns that his boy is dea< 
would not be logical were we not given previoi 
evidence of his passionate love for the child. 

Look where we will at examples of characteriz 
tion and motivation, we find that we cannot do oM 
without doing the other. We cannot, if we wish 
conform to the principles of unity, give the chara 
teristics of a man or force unless those charactc 
istics have a bearing upon future action. We m;i 
show that Reginald is vain, and maintain that t 
portrayal of this simple trait is not motivatid 



MOTIVATION 


103 


it if this vanity has nothing to do with what 
Hows, it does not belong in the story. And we 
nnot tell what a man’s desires and purposes are, 
prepare for the action of some natural or super- 
iman force, without revealing the nature of that 
^n or force. 

Much that we said concerning characterization 
handled by the photoplay writer is true concern- 
l his handling of motivation. Because his effects 
list be obtained almost entirely through the use 
action, he must select his material with much 
sater care than the novelist, and often with more 
re than the short-story writer. Motivation, like 
aracterization, can be expressed in the short¬ 
ly so briefly that it does not interrupt the advance 
the plot action. The same material translated 
:o action, the medium of the screen, may be so 
nbersome and lengthy that it destroys all unity. 

' nsequently, the screen writer seeks constantly 
i select such incidents as will serve a triple pur- 
i se—to characterize, to motivate, and to advance 
\t movement of the story. 

Dn the other hand, the screen, compared with the 
Tative form, has its advantages as well as its 
i litations. Sometimes a simple gesture on the 

> t of the actor—a lifting of the eyebrows, a nerv- 

> > twitching of the mouth, a shrinking back of 
h body,—may express character and motive more 
tikingly than several pages of narrative. 

..et us sum up briefly the contents of our chapter. 

Motivation is the element in story construction 
r which the author gives motives, desires, and pur¬ 
ges to his characters in order to make their actions 
civincing. 




104 


MOTIVATION 


The facts of life are not true for the purpose 
creative writing until the writer has passed th 
through the fires of his creative imagination, ui 
he has altered and shaped them to his end and ] 
linked them definitely with their antecedent earn 

We saw how the imagination could be used 01 
series of facts from life. By creating plausi 
motives behind the action of Slim Ranthers a 
Livingston, we produced a dramatic effect. 

We next conceived a climax that was inheren 
dramatic—the sacrifice of a man for his brothei 
and discovered how easy it would be, by ignori 
motivation, to develop our plot illogically. 1 
changed our tactics and, by careful analysis of 1 
situation, deduced the necessary motivation 
produce a convincing development. 

We discussed “sudden conversions,” and s 
that to make the reformation of a character convii 
ing the writer must show definitely in the early p; 
of the story that the character possesses the tra 
or motives that are later employed to bring ab( 
his conversion. 

Under coincidence , we gave a glaring examp 
and by the use of motivation made it convinci: 
We saw that most events can be given the appe 
ance of reality or convincingness through care 
attention to motives and preparatory action. 

We learned that there are two operations by wh 
the writer handles motivation to produce drai 
By making the characters’ motives, desires, £ 
purposes as powerful as possible, the writer seer 
intense conflict. By making the conflicting for: 
as nearly equal as possible, he secures evenly i 
anced conflict. 


MOTIVATION 


105 


nally, when we examined motivation as handled 
le different story forms, we saw that, if unity 
) be achieved, incidents used to characterize 
t also motivate; and vice versa , those used to 
vate must characterize. The short-story writer 
the photoplay writer handle motivation much 
tiey do characterization—in bold, brief strokes, 
e the novelist uses a leisurely treatment that goes 
ier into the underlying causes. The photoplay 
sr, because of the necessity for putting across 
iffects in action, is forced to more rigid selection 
. either of the fiction writers. He strives, as 
the short-story writer, to select incidents that 
advance the plot action at the same time that 
serve to characterize and motivate. 

> a conclusion to our chapter, let us give a word 
Ivice, some of which will be very similar to that 
n in a previous chapter. 

he writer may study his characters on paper for 
etime, but unless he studies human nature at 
hand the creatures of his imagination will be 
lore than wooden figures clumping through the 
k He is told that to touch the hearts of his 
fence his characters must be real and life-like, 
to know reality and life he must dig down into 
jives of men and women in the flesh. He must 
i to know motives, the mainsprings of human 
>n. 

:judy the people you meet in every day life- 
ids, acquaintances, strangers—anyone who will 
[ with you. All of them have problems full of 
pdy, pathos and humor. This is the stuff of 
ih drama is made—the problems of living, 
thing people. Study people. Analyze their 
ves, their reasons for doing the things they do. 




106 


MOTIVATION 


Find out how they go about solving their prob 
and difficulties in life. In your study, remei 
the words of Abou Ben Adhem: ‘Tut me c 
as one who loves his fellowmen.” 

You are forced, perhaps, to do business wi 
man who bores you to the point of slumber, 
life and personality are to you utterly flat and 
interesting. Don’t shut yourself off with a wa 
superiority from the portion of life that this 
represents. Talk with him. Inject a spirit of 
derstanding and sympathy into your dealings 
him. Perhaps in some chance moment he may j 
a bit from his dull, drab experience that will be 
white-hot spark to your imagination, and that 
furnish the germ for a powerfully dramatic si 
Perhaps he may give you nothing that is of appa 
value. But the fact that you have been intere 
in him, and have dealt with him as a human b( 
will have its effect upon your future writing, 
will have gained a little clearer insight into 
hearts of men and women in general, you will 1 
moved a trifle closer to the soul of humanity. 


CHAPTER VI 


VIEWPOINT 

In this chapter we shall try first, to explain what 
meant by viewpoint and to evolve just as simple 
classification of the different kinds as possible; 
scond, to show the particular advantages and lim- 
ations of each kind; and third, to indicate the dif- 
irences in method of handling by novelist, short- 
:ory writer, and screen writer. 

Viewpoint is the position taken by the writer 
ith respect to his characters—the degree of in- 
macy or knowledge he assumes toward them, 
'his position determines to a large extent the style 
nd manner of treatment of his story material. 

Before we attempt to define and illustrate the 
arious viewpoints, let us fix firmly in mind the fact 
lat the material itself, the medium through which 
hat material is to be expressed, and the effects the 
Titer wishes to produce, will determine which of 
he viewpoints is best suited for any particular 
tory. Speaking abstractly, no one viewpoint is 
etter than another. Some stories are better told 
:om one viewpoint, some from another, and some 
rom a combination of viewpoints. But given a 
articular story to write, there is one viewpoint 
etter than any other from which to tell that story, 
t is the writer’s business to find that viewpoint 
before beginning to write his story; and he will go 
bout finding it by a careful examination of his 




108 


VIEWPOINT 


material, his medium, and the effects he wishes 
produce. 

Let us devise a simple example which we a 
manipulate to show the various positions or vie^ 
points the author may assume with respect to b 
characters. 

I am standing on the roof of a two-story buildin 
watching the people in the street below. I see a ms 
I know as Brown, a building contractor, approad 
ing on the sidewalk. His walk is somewhat unce 
tain, as if he were bent upon some unpleasai 
errand. His manner is nervous. Several times 1 
stops and seems on the point of turning back. Su< 
denly his eyes become fixed on the face of a ma 
walking toward him. His face pales, he makes 
quick movement as if to flee, and halts motionlei 
as the man strides up to him. 

This second man I know to be Smith, a re; 
estate broker. His fists are clenched, his lips ai 
set in a hard, white line. 

“Do you think you can double-cross me and g< 
away with it?” he cries threateningly. “Where 
that option? Didn’t you promise to have it at m 
office last night?” 

“But Mary said she’d have the papers all there c 
time,” explains Brown nervously. 

The two argue for several moments, with Smil 
growing more and more angry. A crowd collect 
Smith finally strikes the contractor. Brown lea] 
back, pulls a gun, fires, and fights his way out of tl 
crowd. He runs swiftly to the alley, crosses a vacai 
lot, climbs a fence, doubles back to cross the ma 
street, slows down to a moderate walk, arrives ; 
a corner, and enters a taxi cab. 


VIEWPOINT 


109 


If I narrate the event in this fashion, telling what 
know about the two men, setting down their speech 
nd action just as I see it, but getting no closer to 
py characters than any other eye witness, I am tel- 
ng the story objectively. This method is known 
Is the Objective Viewpoint —the position from which 
he writer reports events. 

Most text books agree that the Objective View¬ 
point is one of the definite general divisions. But 
eyond this the classifications vary with the authors, 
^ach has his own conception of the subject. Taken 
11 together, with each author contradicting the 
thers, and sometimes himself, the result is vague 
nd confusing. It will be necessary to evolve our 
wn classification, making it just as simple and clear 
s possible. 

The Objective Viewpoint, then, is that from which 
he writer reports the actions of his characters, 
eeping himself aloof and at a distance from them. 

Suppose that, in telling of the fight between 
>rown and Smith, I changed my viewpoint by com- 
lg down from the building to get closer to my 
haracters and assumed a knowledge of them that 
ould not possibly be possessed by a mere spectator 
f the event. In other words, suppose that I por- 
ray not only the outward character of Brown but 
he inner character. For example while telling of 
Irown’s progress down the sidewalk, I insert a 
aragraph explaining his nervousness, his thoughts 
oncerning the option, his fears as to what Smith 
lay do to him. Also, when Smith strikes Brown, 

analyze the surge of emotion that sweeps through 
»rown—the swallowing up of fear and nervousness 
y sudden rage, the final releasing of months, of 
uppressed hate. I shall then no longer be using 





110 


VIEWPOINT 


the objective viewpoint, but shall be narrating 
part of the story from the Subjective Viewpoint. 

The Subjective Viewpoint is that from which tl 
writer sees into the minds and hearts of his characte 
to narrate directly what they think and feel. Th 
does not mean, of course, that the entire story 
told in terms of thought and emotion. 

These are the two distinctive divisions of our sul 
ject—the Objective Viewpoint and the Subjectn 
Viewpoint. Each of these has two subdivisions < 
we shall see by further examination of our exampl 

It will be noted that in our first version of t! 
event we placed the emphasis of attention upo 
Brown. We began the narration of the event wit 
Brown and we ended it with Brown. We not onl 
described no action that an eye witness might nc 
see, but we told nothing that Brown himself ws 
not present to see. In doing this, we were adherin 
to the Single Angle of narration. 

The event, as we wrote it, was told from the Ot 
jective Viewpoint and from the Single Angle. Sup 
pose, however, that instead of following Brow 
until he enters the taxi, I tell of his disappearanc 
into the alley, then shift back to where Smith i 
painfully getting to his feet. I tell how Smith i 
helped to a drugstore, how he utters loud threat 
of vengeance, how the police arrive. Finally, 
go back to Brown and tell of his escape in the tax 
I should then be telling the story from the Shijtm 
Angle; that is, I shift the angle of narration from or 
character to another. 

When we changed the purely objective viewpoir 
of our original version by inserting Brown’s though' 
and emotions, we made no mention of what Smit 


VIEWPOINT 


111 


ought or felt. We were using the Subjective View- 
int from the Single Angle . 

If, in addition to revealing Brown’s mind and 
:art, we had also given the thoughts and emotions 
Smith during the event, we should have been 
ling the Subjective Viewpoint from the Shifting 
ngle. 

For the purpose of carrying these various divisions 
sarly in mind, it will be well to put our classification 
the form of an outline, as follows: 

I. The Objective Viewpoint is that from which 
the author reports the speech and actions of 
his characters, with no pretense of knowing 
their mental or emotional activities. 

(a) . The Single Angle , from which the author 

reports events that can logically be 
known only to one character. 

(b) . The Shifting Angle , from which the 

author reports not only events at which 
one character is present, but events 
that cannot possibly be known to him. 

II. The Subjective Viewpoint is that from which 
the author sees into the minds and hearts of his 
characters to reveal their thoughts and feelings. 

(a) . The Single Angle, from which the author 

reveals only the thoughts and feelings 
of his principal character. 

(b) . The Shifting Angle, from which the 

author reveals the thoughts and feel¬ 
ings of more than one character. 

It will readily be seen that both the objective and 
objective viewpoints may be, and usually are, used 
] the same story. In fact, very few stories have been 
Id purely from one viewpoint. We say that a 


112 


VIEWPOINT 


story is told subjectively or objectively according 
the preponderance of one treatment or the otli 
Certain stories by de Maupassant are usually gn 
as examples of short-stories written almost entir 
from the objective viewpoint. Henry James, Ha 
thorne, George Eliot, use the subjective metf 
extensively in their work. “Markheim” is largi 
subjective; “They Grind Exceeding Small” is largi 
objective. 

There is one important step in connection with 1 
single angle, that the writer must consider carefu 
before he begins the writing of his story. No t 
people see the same event in precisely the same w; 
This is well illustrated by the widely differ] 
versions of a street accident, sworn to by eye w 
nesses. A story told from the angle of the princi] 
character will be different from the story told fr( 
the angle of a minor character or from the angle 
an inactive witness. Therefore, the writer mi 
weigh the effects he wishes to produce, must imagi 
those effects from the angle of each character st 
arately and from the angle of an inactive witne 
No rule can be given as to which angle is best. T 
material, the medium, and the effects to be produc 
will determine the angle best suited for that sto: 

We must mention here the story told in the fi 
person. Such a story is, of course, told from t 
single angle. It may, however, be told from the c 
jective or subjective viewpoint. 

Let us now look at typical examples taken fr< 
published stories, and discuss the relative vali 
of the different viewpoints. 

1. The following is from “The God of 1 
Fathers”, by Jack London. 


VIEWPOINT 


113 


“They led him to the edge of the steep, where 
they paused to witness the final tragedy. The 
half-breed turned to Hay Stockard. 

“ ‘There is no god/ he prompted. 

“The man laughed in reply. One of the young 
j men poised a war-spear for the cast. 

“ ‘Hast thou a god?’ 

“ ‘Ay, the God of my fathers.’ 

“He shifted the axe for a better grip. Baptiste 
the Red gave the sign, and the spear hurtled 
full against his breast. Sturges Owen saw the 
ivory head stand out beyond his back, saw the 
man sway, laughing, and snap the shaft short 
j as he fell upon it. Then he went down the river 
that he might carry to the Russians the mes¬ 
sage of Baptiste the Red, in whose country 
there was no god.” 

This is a typical example of narrative from the 
jective Viewpoint. The story as a whole is ob- 
^tively told from the Single Angle. 

When the events to be depicted contain action 
nose significance is plainly visible, the objective 
/ewpoint can be used to produce brilliant and striking 
tects. Thoughts and emotions that portray them- 
;lves in outward action need no interpretation. 
:it the subtleties of inner conflict, the great crises 
: character, do not lend themselves to interpretation 
trough the objective treatment alone. The use 
: the single angle, with the objective viewpoint, 
‘suits in a speed and directness that is obtained by 
:>ne of the other methods. Very few stories can be 
:ld from this viewpoint and angle. 

2. The Objective Viewpoint, with the Shifting 
Agle, is well illustrated in “Mammon and the 
-xher,” by O. Henry. 



114 


VIEWPOINT 


The principal character is Anthony Rockwel 
retired millionaire, who tries to impress upon h 
son the creed that money will obtain anythin; 
The boy will not be convinced. He is desponder 
because he can find no chance to propose to Mi; 
Langtry, a girl in exclusive society circles. He 
to be allowed to drive with her—a drive of six ( 
eight minutes—to a theatre party tomorrow evenin 
just before she sails for Europe. What chance has 1: 
to make her listen at such a moment? He leaves i 
despair, with the old man reiterating his convictio 
that money can do anything. Here the auth( 
shifts his angle. A scene takes place between tf 
boy and his Aunt Ellen. Aunt Ellen gives him a rir 
his mother had wished him to have when he shoul 
find the one girl. Young Rockwell keeps his aj 
pointment with Miss Langtry. They whirl alon 
in the cab with no time to spare. The boy drop 
his mother’s ring, and stops the cab to recover i 
He loses but a minute, but in that minute a traffi 
jam occurs that bids fair to delay them an hour c 
two. Miss Langtry asks to see the ring, and remarf 
that theatres are bores anyway. Once more th 
author shifts the angle of narration back to Anthon 
Rockwell. At eleven o’clock that night Aunt Elle 
knocks at his door to inform him that Richard an 
Miss Langtry are engaged. She attributes the mirac 
to the ring. The next day a rough looking individu; 
by the name of Kelly calls and is given $1300 t 
Rockwell. It is made plain that Kelly receive 
$5000 the day before. Kelly explains how he use 
the five thousand—the difficulty he had with tl 
motorman, the truck drivers, etc., to create tl 
traffic jam of the preceding evening. 


VIEWPOINT 


115 


The shifting angle is here used to produce the 
urprise ending. It is evident that if the author 
ad continued his narration from the angle of An- 
hony Rockwell, the story would have lost its 
punch” or big effect in the end. By shifting the 
ngle to young Rockwell, significant action on the 
art of the father is logically withheld; when that 
ction is finally revealed to the reader, though kept 
idden from the boy, the effect is striking. 

The second major use of the shifting angle is to 
eighten suspense. The principal character may be 
onfronted by an obstacle or menace, the exact 
feriousness of which is concealed from him. To 
lake plain the gravity of the situation to the reader, 
diile keeping the character in ignorance, it is nec¬ 
essary to shift the angle. This was illustrated in the 
xample given in discussing suspense, (page 76). 
t is also desirable at times to show the reader an 
pproaching menace of which the character has no 
int whatever, in which event the single angle can- 
ot be maintained. It must not be inferred, however, 
hat surprise and suspense cannot be achieved 
tirough the single angle. The nature of the material 
> the determining factor as to which angle will 
roduce these qualities to the greatest degree. 

3. The Subjective Viewpoint from the Single 
[ngle is illustrated in “His Smile,” by Susan Glaspell, 
ublished originally in Pictorial Review and reprinted 
l “O’Brien’s Yearbook for 1921.” 

The principal character, a wife whose husband 
as been blown up in a munitions plant, goes from 
3wn to town to see over and over a certain moving 
icture. In this picture are a few feet of film showing 
er husband with his tender, winning smile, as he 
ras caught by the camera one day in a busy street. 




116 


VIEWPOINT 


The film has about run its course and is ready for th 
scrap-heap. It seems to the woman that she cannc 
give up this one glimpse of Howie, the only thin 
she has left of him. Finally comes the last showin 
of the picture. She is terrified. Desperately sh 
tries to seize and hold something of her husban 
from the fleeting shadows of the screen. Howi 
smiles at her for the last time, but it is a smile tha 
makes everything all right. For she has supporter 
the head of a sleeping child in the next seat, and ha 
realized that in doing for others—which was Howie' 
purpose in life—she comes very close to her husband 
Such a story as this could hardly be made effectiv 
without placing marked emphasis upon the womai 
and without careful analysis of her mind and heart 
The author has delved deeply into his character’! 
innermost being, giving in detail her thoughts anc 
emotions. The single angle is rigidly maintained 
the minor characters are so subordinated that the} 
form merely a background. The end of the stor} 
is a good example of this minute psychologica 
analysis that marks the subjective method. 

“Now she was knowing. She had wan tec 
to push people aside and reach into the shadow; 
for Howie. She began to see that it was not s( 
she would reach him. It was in being as h< 
had been—kind, caring—that she could havi 
a sense of him near. Here was her chance— 
among the people she had thought stood be 
tween her and her chance. Howie had alway 
cared for these people. On his way through th 
world with them he had always stopped to d" 
the kind thing—as he stopped to make it righ 
for the badly muzzled dog. Then there wa \ 
something for her to do in the world. She cout I 


VIEWPOINT 


117 


do the kind things Howie would be doing if 
he were there! It would somehow—keep him. 
It would—fulfill him. Yes, fulfill him. Howie 
had made her more alive—warmer and kinder. 
If she became as she had been before—Howie 
would have failed. She moved so that the little 
girl who rested against her could rest the better. 
And as she did this—it was as if Howie had 
smiled. The one thing the picture had never 
given her—the sense that it was hers to keep— 
j that stole through her now as the things come 
which we can never lose. For the first moment 
since she lost him, she had him. And all the 
people in that theatre, and all the people in 
the world —here was the truth! It cleared and 
righted as Howie’s smile had righted the picture. 
In so far as she could come close to others she 
would come closer to him.” 

The subjective method, as we have said, is the 
effective one to use when the events are mental or 
subjective. In the great crises of character or 
where it is necessary to interpret phases of life 
impossible to portray through the outward action 
employed by the objective method, the subjective 
viewpoint is the only one from which the story 
:an be narrated adequately. In "His Smile,” for 
instance, the objective method would fail to present 
the woman’s problem appealingly and convincingly, 
and it would fail utterly to present the solving of 
that problem. The reason is evident. The outward 
action is so small a part of the story; the mental 
and spiritual action is so predominant a part. 

This particular viewpoint we are discussing—the 
subjective, from the single angle—necessitates a 
rigidly objective treatment of all characters other 



118 


VIEWPOINT 


than the principal one. In a sense this is a limitation 
for the reason that such treatment excludes all direct 
presentation of the thoughts and feelings of the other 
characters. It limits the canvas upon which the 
artist is painting. In another sense it is an advantage 
in that it tends to give unity, coherence, and direct¬ 
ness to the story by focusing all the incidents and 
events around one character. 

Its distinctive advantage, however, is that it is 
the most natural method of telling a story. It is 
easier to maintain the illusion of reality from this 
viewpoint than from any other. In actual life we 
see events from one angle only—our own—and we 
also see them in relation to our own thoughts and 
emotions. 

4. The Subjective Viewpoint from the Shifting 
Angle is remarkably well illustrated in “Fanutza,’ 
by Konrad Bercovici, published originally in Th 
Dial , and reprinted in ‘‘O’Brien’s Yearbook for 1921.’ 

Marcu, a gipsy chief, and his daughter, Fanutza 
are rowed across the Danube by Mehmet Ali, th 
Tartar boatman. On the return trip, which Mehme 
says is the last crossing of the river he will make thii 
season, the water begins to freeze. The Tarta 
offers Marcu twenty-five gold pieces for Fanutza 
whom he desires as a wife. Marcu indignantb 
refuses. Mehmet rests his oars and bargains 
allowing the boat to drift down stream into th 
night. His intentions are plain—to force the gips^ 
into a trade through endangering all three lives 
He raises his bid from time to time until his offe 
stands at a hundred gold pieces. Fanutza, pledge^ 
by her father to Stan, one of the gipsies, finds i 
Mehmet Ali a man totally different from any othe 
she has ever met. Here is a man who does no: 




VIEWPOINT 


119 


elieve that all women are alike, one who is willing 
) pay the savings of twenty years for her. Marcu 
nally agrees to the bargain and receives the bag 
F gold. He does not, however, intend to keep his 
r ord. He knows that his gipsies will be waiting for 
im on the other shore; he plans carefully just how 
e will unload the boat first, then when his men are 
ear enough he will tell Fanutza to run toward them, 
/hen they land the next morning they are sur- 
>unded by the gipsies who believed their chief 
!>st. Marcu, believing himself safe, throws the bag 
: gold back to the Tartar, and takes his daughter 
¥ the arm. But Fanutza jerks free and steps to 
le side of Mehmet Ali, announcing that she will 
|) with the Tartar. 

The following extract shows very plainly the sub- 
ctive treatment and the shifting angle. 

“ ‘Fool, a woman is only a woman. They 
are all alike,’ roared the gipsy. 

“ ‘Not to me!’ answered Mehmet Ali quietly. 
‘I shall not say another word.’ 

“ ‘Fool, fool, fool,’ roared the gipsy as he 
still tried to catch Fanutza’s eye. It was already 
too dark. 

“ ‘Not to me.’ The Tartar’s words echoed 
in the girl’s heart. ‘Not to me.’ Twenty years 
he had worked to save such a great sum. And 
now he had refused an equal amount and was 
willing to pay it all for her. Would Stan have 
done this? Why should she be compelled to 
marry whom her father chose when men were 
willing to pay a hundred gold pieces for her? 
The old women of the camp had taught her to 
cook and to mend and to wash and to weave. 
She must know all that to be worthy of Stan, 



120 


VIEWPOINT 


they told her. And here was a man who di< 
not know whether she knew any of these thing 
who staked his life for her and offered a hundre 
gold pieces in the bargain! Twenty years c 
savings. Twenty years of work. It was no 
every day one met such a man. Surely, wit] 
one strong push of his arms he could thro\ 
her father overboard. He did not do it becaus 
he did not want to hurt her feelings. And a 
the silence continued Fanutza thought her father 
too, was a fine man. It was fine of him to offer < 
hundred gold pieces for her liberty. That wa; 
in itself a great thing. But did he do it onh 
for her sake or wasn’t it because of Stan, be 
cause of himself? And as she thought agaii 
of Mehmet’s ‘Not to me,’ she remembered th< 
fierce bitterness in her father’s voice when h< 
had yelled, ‘All women are alike.’ That wa; 
not true. If it were true why would Mehmei 
Ali want her and her only after having seen hei 
only once? Then, too, all men must be alike 
It was not so at all! Why! Mehmet Ali was 
not at all like Stan. And he offered a hunderc 
pieces of gold. No. Stan was of the kinc 
who think all women are alike. That was it 
All her people were thinking all women wen 
alike. That was it. Surely all the men in th( 
tribe were alike in that. All her father had evei 
been to her, his kindness, his love was wipec 
away when he said those few words. The Iasi 
few words of Mehmet Ali, ‘Not to me,’ wen 
the sweetest music she had ever heard. 

“Marcu waited until it was dark enough foi 
the Tartar not to see, when pressing significantly 
his daughter’s foot, he said: 


VIEWPOINT 


121 


‘So be it as you said. Row us across.’ 

'It is not one minute too soon,’ Mehmet 
answered. ‘Only a short distance from here, 
where the river splits in three forks, is a great 
rock. Shake hands. Here. Now here is one 
oar. Pull as I count, Bir, icki , outch, dort. 
Again, Bir, icki , outch, dort. . . . 

“Again and again the gipsy pressed the foot 
of his daughter as he bent over the oar. She 
should know of course that he never intended 
to keep his end of the bargain. He gave in only 
when he saw that the Tartar meant to wreck 
them all on the rocks ahead of them. Why had 
he, old and experienced as he was, having dealt 
with those devils of Tartars for so many years, 
not known better than to return to the boat 
after he had heard Mehmet say ‘It is not fair!’ 
And after he had reflected on the Tartar’s 
words, why, after he had refused to buy all 
the silks and linen on that reflection, not a very 
clear one at first, why had he not told Mehmet 
to row across alone and deliver the fodder and 
food. He could have passed the night in Anas- 
tasidis’ inn and hired another boat the following 
morning if the river had not frozen meanwhile! 
He should have known, he who kne^ these 
passionate beasts so well. It was all the same 
with them; whether they set their eyes on a 
horse that captured their fancy or a woman. 
They were willing to kill or be killed in the 
fight for what they wanted. A hundred gold 
pieces for a woman! Twenty years’ work for 
a woman!” 

From the brief outline of the story that precedes 

e quotation, it will be seen that the big effect in 


122 


VIEWPOINT 


the climax is brought about through the action < 
Fanutza. The surprise ending and solution of tl 
plot problem is the result of the girl’s action. It a 
also be easily seen that, until the climax, the actic 
belongs almost entirely to the two men, with Marcu 
part dominant. Consequently, to make up for th 
lack of action on the girl’s part and to render coi 
vincing her action at the end, it was necessary 1 
prepare for that surprising action by revealing hi 
thoughts and feelings. 

On the other hand, the thoughts and emotioi 
of the wily gipsy are also necessary; first, that ^ 
may understand the strange customs and characte 
istics of these people, and second, because the su 
prise ending would be ineffective did we not see tl 
shrewd, intricate workings of the gipsy’s mini 
In order to have the surprise ending, it was nece 
sary also to center the attention on a character othi 
than Fanutza. Thus we see the reasons for tl 
subjective treatment from the shifting angle 
this particular story. 

If the story had been conceived differently; 
for instance, the author had for his climax son 
brilliant and clever stroke on the part of the gip 
chief that gave him the upper hand of the Tartc 
the story would have been written from the su 
jective viewpoint but the single angle. There won 
have been no need for giving directly the thougl 
and emotions of the girl. 

We come now to the applications of these differe 
viewpoints to the short-story, the novel, and fij 
photoplay. Let us emphasize once more the fc i 
that the fiction writer does not, as a rule, confi 
himself rigidly to the subjective viewpoint or t 
objective viewpoint in any one story. In almi 


VIEWPOINT 


123 


ivery story we can find both; the one that predomi- 
lates characterizes the story as objective or sub- 
ective, as the case may be. Nor does he select 
>ne viewpoint and one angle and adhere rigidly to 
hat combination for the sake of technique. If he 
inds that a change of viewpoint or angle will pro- 
luce a more powerful effect, he makes that change. 
The whole point is that he must know what he is 
loing. 

The typical short-story is told from the single 
ngle. When we consider the nature of the short- 
tory—-its directness, its compression, its singleness 
»f effect—it is plain that such qualities are not so 
ikely to be attained through the shifting angle, 
"he young writer of short-stories will do well to 
onfine the angle of narration to one character until 
ie has become fairly proficient in the handling of 
tory elements. He may then experiment with the 
hifting angle. 

Although the typical short-story is told from the 
ingle angle, it is to be noted that modern short- 
tories—the ones found in current magazines— 
mploy the shifting angle to a much greater extent 
han did those of twenty, or even ten, years ago. 
"he reason for this is directly traceable to the in- 
luence of the screen upon fiction writing. Anyone 
/ho is at all observant has noticed the rapidity and 
requency with which the motion picture shifts from 
he angle of one character to that of another. A 
>hotoplay synopsis, transcribed from the picture 
s it is run on the screen, is a choppy, rather inco- 
Lerent piece of writing. On the screen it may be 
>erfect in unity, structure and coherence; on paper 
t is not. In our chapter on Drama we learned that 
he screen writer has paid special attention to the 



124 


VIEWPOINT 


element of suspense. To make this element as pow 
erful as possible he is forced to shift the angle fron 
one character to another. This accounts for tb 
lack of smoothness and the choppy effect when tb 
picture is translated to the printed word. He ha 
been so successful in the development of his techniqui 
in regard to this particular element that the moderi 
short-story writer has come to realize more clearh 
the advantages and possibilities of the shifting angle 
While he never shifts the angle of narration to th< 
extent practiced by the screen writer, he allows him 
self more latitude in this respect than he did formerly 

In the same way, it will be well for the inexperiencec 
writer to practice narration extensively from th< 
objective viewpoint before attempting the subjec 
tive treatment. The subjective viewpoint unles 
skillfully handled, has a tendency to drag the move 
ment or forward action of the story. There is dange 
of the writer’s becoming so absorbed in the menta 
and emotional reactions of a character that he lose 
all sense of proportion. George Eliot does thi 
frequently to such an extent that the reader forget 
what the story is all about. 

The short-story writer, then, in order to use th 
viewpoint best suited to the particular story he i 
about to write, must first examine his material t 
see whether the action is mental or objective. H 
must then determine whether the effects he wishe 
to produce can be achieved best from the angle ( 
the principal character, the angle of a minor cha: 
acter, the angle of an inactive witness, or the ang 
of several characters. 

The typical novel is told from the subjective viez' 
point and the shifting angle . There are strikir 
exceptions, of course, notably novels of adventui 




VIEWPOINT 


125 


:old in the first person, a grammatical structure 
hat naturally calls for the single angle. The reasons 
or this typical method are fairly easy to understand. 

; For example, it is not difficult to see that, unless 
he novel is one of almost pure action and adventure, 
he subjective viewpoint from the single angle would 
lave a tendency to grow exceedingly monotonous, 
t would be a most extraordinary character whose 
nental processes and emotional reactions, unrelieved 
j>y the thoughts and feelings of other characters, 
ould hold our interest throughout the length of a 
Lovel. On the other hand, a novel told from the 
objective viewpoint and the single angle demands 
i wealth of outward action that few writers are 
apable of supplying. As a general rule, the use of 
he single angle in the novel limits the scope and 
>readth of the book. The section of life interpreted 
annot be so large as when the shifting angle is em- 
iloyed. 

While the subjective viewpoint and the shifting 
.ngle is best suited for the telling of the average 
lovel, the objective treatment from the same angle 
snds itself well for use in a certain kind of fiction. 
The novel of adventure, of romance, or light enter- 
ainment value is usually written largely from the 
•bjective viewpoint. 

The screen story is told from the objective view- 
>oint and the shifting angle. The very nature of the 
nedium almost demands such a treatment. We see 
t a glance that the subjective treatment is impos- 
ible; the thoughts and emotions of the characters 
i nust be presented to the audience not through the 
! /ords of the author, but through the actions and 
mited speech of the characters. The single angle 
; 3 barred because it does not afford sufficient oppor- 







126 


VIEWPOINT 


tunity for creating suspense, and because it limit* 
the scope of the story, both in length and in treat¬ 
ment. 

The statement that subjective treatment in the 
screen story is impossible must be qualified to a cer¬ 
tain extent when we speak of the detailed synopsis 
of the story. A photoplay synopsis told entirely 
from the objective viewpoint would be a very 
difficult achievement and would in all probability 
fail utterly to portray the story values. Subject¬ 
ive treatment may be used in the synopsis to a lim¬ 
ited extent, especially in regard to motivation, 
When it is used, however, it must be handled in 
such a way that the material it deals with can be 
easily given objective treatment by the continuity 
writer or director. 

While the fiction story may present its principal 
character through the eyes of a minor character oi 
an inactive witness, the screen story must stand its 
principal character firmly on his own feet—that is 
to say, he and his actions cannot be seen entirely 
through the eyes of another but must be portrayed 
as directly and impersonally as possible. This does 
not mean that characterization and dramatic effects 
cannot be portrayed through presenting the effecl 
of one character upon another, but merely that sucf 
indirect method must not be the predominant one, 

The screen writer must be exceedingly careful 
in his handling of the shifting angle, lest he fall into 
narrative methods. He may have conceived a mys¬ 
tery story, or a story with a surprise ending, whicf 
could be told easily in fiction, but which would re¬ 
quire the utmost mastery of technique to become 
effective on the screen. 


VIEWPOINT 


127 


A few mystery stories have been screened, but 
Le element of mystery requires exceptional skill 
the treatment. As a general rule we may hide 
Le motives of the characters from one another; 
e may hide from one character the actions of an- 
her or important events in that second character’s 
e. But when we attempt to hide from the audience 
aterial that is significant to the plot action, we 
;ually get into trouble. 

The surprise ending in the photoplay is usually 
itained through some twist or clever stroke on the 
art of a principal character, and is not dependent 
pon withholding information. But occasionally a 
rprise ending is produced by concealing from the 
idience until the last moment some important mo¬ 
ve or action. In such rare cases the deception is 
mdled so cleverly that the spectators are not aware 
lat anything has been withheld. It is a very diffi- 
ilt thing to do in the photoplay, although it is done 
Immonly in the magazine story. There are two 
asons for the difficulty. 

! The first reason lies in the great difference between 
e two mediums. The fiction writer finds it com¬ 
batively simple to withhold information by em- 
iiasizing something else, by clever suggestion, 
r subtle persuasion so deftly handled that the reader 
)es not know he is being led in a certain direction, 
be screen writer may attempt to do these things, 
it because he is limited by his medium to action 
at can be photographed, he has small chance of 
cceeding. He cannot be intimate with his audience. 

the fiction writer can; he cannot persuade so 
sily by suggestion, or hypnotize by brilliancy and 
lauty of style. He cannot, in a word, distort the 
i tions of his characters because those actions are 




128 


VIEWPOINT 


plainly visible to the audience; and he cannot a 
ceal their motives because, despite all he can do 
prevent it, their actions will reveal motives. 

The second reason for the screen writer’s difficu' 
in handling mystery stories and stories with surpr 
endings lies in the difference that exists between t 
reader of a printed story and the spectator of 
moving picture. 

The reader of a story identifies himself with t 
principal character and is content to follow t 
action, seeing and hearing only what the characl 
sees and hears, knowing the actions and lives of t 
other characters only as the principal character c 
logically know them. The spectator, viewing 
picture, does not do this. It is true that he identif 
himself with the leading character, but* he is n 
content to follow the story from the hero’s vie 
point alone. He considers himself a privileg 
person, a disinterested spectator. 

When the reader of a story sees the antagoni 
doing something the motive for which is not immec 
ately explained, he accepts the action as logical 
the hero has no way of knowing the other persoi 
motives; but when the spectator sees the same thi 
on the screen, he does not accept it as logical. I 
immediately feels that information has been wit 
held, not from the principal character but from hi 
the privileged spectator. He feels that we are tryi 
deliberately to create mystery. When once we sh( 
the audience just how we produce our effects, we 
longer produce those effects, but something e 
tirely different—in this instance, a distinct feelii 
of resentment. 

The^ screen writer should not attempt to fool t i 
audience. Even if he succeeds, he runs the risk 


VIEWPOINT 


129 


Incurring their displeasure. People find it much 
Inore amusing to watch others being fooled than to 
md that they themselves have been “taken in.’’ 

It must not be inferred, however, that it is nec- 
lssary in the screen story to divulge everything that 
akes place in a character’s mind. For instance,— 
o take the first example that comes to hand—one 
»f our characters has devised a clever scheme to 
apture the heroine. We do not necessarily have to 
xplain the details of that scheme at the time it is 
ionceived. The audience may learn what the 
cheme is as it unfolds in action. But it must be 
nade pretty clear just what the character is “driv- 
ng at.” Does he want to capture the girl in order 
o force her to marry him? Or does he want to 
told her for ransom? Perhaps neither. It is pos- 
ible that he is actuated by the worthiest of motives, 
fe might know of some great danger threatening 
he girl; if he warns her of this danger, she will 
efuse to heed his advice because the two have quar- 
eled; for her own good he must protect her against 
ler will. Just what his motives are will determine 
he effect of his actions upon the audience; and unless 
ve make those motives plain, we do not know what 
esponse his actions will call forth from the audience. 

We see, then, that the viewpoint from which the 
-creen writer tells his story must be as objective 
ind as impersonal as possible, and that he must 
:ake his audience into his confidence to a far greater 
legree than does the fiction writer. He must con- 
;ider the spectators as looking out upon the char- 
icters in the play almost from the same vantage point 
is that upon which he himself stands. 

Let us now summarize briefly the contents of our 
:hapter. 




130 


VIEWPOINT 


Viewpoint is the position taken by the writ 
with regard to his characters—the degree of intima< 
or knowledge he assumes toward them. 

Our classification contains two main division 
(1) The Objective Viewpoint, from which the auth 
with no pretense of knowing the mental or emotion 
life of his characters, reports their speech and a 
tion; (2) The Subjective Viewpoint, from which tl 
author sees into the minds and hearts of his cha 
acters to portray their thoughts and feelings. 

The Objective is used when the events to be d 
picted are made up of action the significance 
which is easily apparent. The Subjective is use 
when the events to be depicted are largely ment 
or subjective. 

The writer using either the objective or subjects 
treatment, may tell his story from either of two ai 
gles: (1) The Single Angle, from which he sees tl 
events of the story through the eyes of one charact 
only; (2) The Shifting Angle, from which he sees tl 
events of the story through the eyes of more the 
one character. 

The use of the single angle makes for directnes 
unity, and coherence; the shifting angle allows 
broader, deeper treatment of the material and 
exceedingly valuable in the creating of suspens 

The fiction writer uses all four methods. Tl 
true short-story is produced most easily through tl 
use of the single angle. The subjective viewpoi 
from the single angle is the most natural method 
telling a story. The modern short-story howeve 
tends to employ the shifting angle. 

The typical novel employs the subjective vie 
point and the shifting angle. The objective tre* 
ment is used in the popular novel. 


VIEWPOINT 


131 


The screen writer is confined to the use of the obj¬ 
ective viewpoint and the shifting angle. 

It may seem that this chapter has been unusually 
:echnical and uninteresting. The subject of view¬ 
point is a technical one—one that is often vague and 
pnly partially understood, even by successful authors. 
Despite its abstract and uninviting nature, it will 
*epay the writer a hundredfold for the time and study 
le puts into it. Certain gifted individuals may trust 
;o instinct, and stumble blindly into the most suit- 
ible viewpoint from which to tell their stories. But 
:he young writer who masters the technique of 
this fundamental may rest in the conviction that he 
kill see his story material in the best possible light 
trom which to tell it, and that he will very probably 
produce better stories than many of his contempo¬ 
raries who possess greater natural talent. 



CHAPTER VII 


CONCLUSION 

In this concluding chapter we shall state brief!; 
the central idea contained in each of the precedin; 
chapters, and we shall give a few words of advic 
to the ambitious writer concerning the necessity fo 
his keeping abreast of the times. 

The creative imagination, the one faculty above al 
others that the writer should seek to cultivate, i 
developed through the expression of intense interes 
in life and sympathy with people. Unity is achieve( 
through selection and arrangement of significan 
detail. Characterization of imaginary characters i 
made life-like by giving to them both typical anc 
individual traits that are distinctive. The secre 
of Drama lies in the expression of heroic values. Mo 
tivation, which is the element of construction b] 
which the story is made logical and reasonable 
is accomplished by presenting adequate cause behin( 
the action depicted. Viewpoint, the position as 
sumed by the writer with respect to his characters 
and the angle of narration are determined by th 
nature of the material, the medium of expressior 
and the effect the author wishes to produce. 

We have attempted to treat these fundamental 
of creative writing as exhaustively as possible, wit! 
out causing confusion. We have tried to stres 
their great importance, to dig down into their basi 
meaning, and to comprehend the chief methoc 

132 


CONCLUSION 


133 


of their application to the different story forms. It 
must not be thought, however, that we are finished 
with technique. In the text books and the course 
of instruction that follows, we shall have to dig still 
deeper into the fundamentals as they apply to one 
particular form of writing. 

While the writer is studying this book of the fun¬ 
damentals and, later, while he is learning the specific 
technique of the story form he has chosen, he should 
at the same time be doing two other things. He 
should be constantly writing , for it is only through 
incessant practice that mastery is attained, and he 
should be constantly studying the work of successful, 
!l modern writers. It is on this last subject concerning 
the work of modern writers, that the few words of 
advice are necessary. 

The writer who would produce salable stories 
must write according to the technique of the present 
day. The moment we say ‘‘salable,” we seem to 
invest our art with the sordid touch of commercialism. 
And yet a little thought will show that artistic work 
and salable work are not so far apart as is some¬ 
times thought. 

A writer may have the imagination to create won- 
! derful stories of power and exquisite beauty. But 
if he has not the ability to convey their power and 
‘ beauty to the minds of others, or if he refuses to 
conform to the technique demanded by present 
' day editors and producers, his imagination is wasted. 
Even though he may express his stories in what he 
and a few critics maintain is artistic form, the work 
must be salable; otherwise that writer has failed, 
according to the highest standards of his art, just 
as surely as the writer who cannot sell his stories 
because they have no entertainment value. It is 




134 


CONCLUSION 


conceded that editors and producers sometime 
make mistakes, but in the main they voice publii 
demands with fair accuracy. The art of a Booth 
or a Mansfield, or a Duse, expressed in an empty 
theatre, is valueless. In the same way, a story 
cannot be called art unless it is made available anc 
furnishes enjoyment to some representative portior 
of the public, and to be made available to the public 
it must be salable. 

The technique demanded by editors and producen 
today is not the technique of yesterday. The short- 
story, the novel, the photoplay—all are in a fluic 
state, constantly changing, constantly improving 

Fifteen or twenty years ago, for instance, the youn£ 
writer of the short-story studied the works of Edgai 
Allan Poe, Guy de Maupassant, and Nathaniel 
Hawthorne. He studied them assiduously until he 
had learned the definite technique they expressed, 
There he stopped. There was nothing beyond, 
nothing higher than the form and construction de* 
veloped by these masters of fiction writing. But 
the aspiring writer of today, unless he wishes tc 
write only for his own amusement, must go further 
in his studies. He should remember that Poe, de 
Maupassant, and Hawthorne would not have beer 
the masters that they were had they been contenl 
to walk in paths made by writers dead and gone 
had they not been keenly alive to the progress anc 
spirit of the times of which they themselves were i 
part. 

There are still college and university courses, anc 
also private courses, in which the first successfu 
exponents of the short-story are the only guiding 
lights. The students of such courses frequently 
turn out gems of short-story construction, storie 


CONCLUSION 


135 


iat are pronounced perfect examples of technique, 
md so they are, from the viewpoint of a past gen- 
cation. But judged by the standards of today, 
ney are failures. 

Our purpose is not to belittle or discredit the old 
rasters—the rules and laws they formulated are 
‘ ill the basis of our fiction technique—but to con- 
emn the academic teaching methods that stop with 
lie study of the past and refuse to recognize the 
Evolutionary process that is at work in literature 
ad art just as forcibly as it is in the animal and 
bgetable kingdom, in science, in industry, and in 
ffery other phase of life. It is true that there are 
i agazines that buy short-stories written according 
1> the rigid technique of the past, but they are few 
i number and their rates are low. It is true, also, 
liat a knowledge of the old technique is indispens- 
ale, but it is not adequate knowledge, it is not 
omplete knowledge. 

The current magazines contain a great number of 
Tories that are short in length, but that are not 
epical short-stories. In other words, short fiction 
f\ today is not composed entirely of short-stories. 
action that borrows technical devices and methods 
fom the novel, the novelette, and the photoplay, 
ht keeps within the length usually prescribed by 
lie short-story, constitutes a substantial part of 
n agazine fiction. Such work finds favor in the eyes of 
ontemporary readers. Although it is not to be 
-ttempted at first by the inexperienced writer, it 
aould be studied as part of present day technique, 
'radually, as he becomes more and more familiar 
ith his tools, he may venture into new fields and 
ike his place with those who are making modern 
terature. 





136 


CONCLUSION 


The writer, then, who wishes to succeed and 
put his talent to its highest use, will not confli 
himself to a study of the old models. He will, 
he is wise, give by far the greater portion of his stuc 
to work that is appearing in current magazim 
and to the latest published novels. He will learn tl 
old technique, but he will supplement his knowled^ 
and enrich it by a thorough familiarity with tl 
new. 

It would seem, at first glance, that this advi( 
to the writer of screen stories is unneccessary, f( 
the reason that it is easier to study the latest phot< 
plays than those released a year ago. But becaus 
styles in motion pictures change with such bewilde: 
ing rapidity and because some new possibility i 
screen technique is discovered almost daily, tl 
screen writer must be more thoroughly up to dal 
than the fiction writer. 

The word moron has come into quite common us 
during recent years. A moron is an individual whos 
intellectual development has been arrested betwee 
the ages of eight and twelve years, whose faculti< 
of reason and imagination have stopped growin; 
Well, most of us are morons to a certain exten 
Some of us, who are considered quite normal, stc 
growing at twenty, some at forty. There is r 
reason for this arrested development, other than th; 
we allow our habits of thinking and feeling to crysts 
lize. There is no good reason why our intellectu 
faculties should not continue their growth until tl 
end of life. Upon the man who follows art in ar 
form devolves the almost sacred duty of prolongii 
his period of mental growth to the limit of its pc 
sibilities. 



CONCLUSION 


137 


To keep the mind alive and open to new ideas, 
be able to see from the other person’s point of 
sw, to be tolerant, to be persistent,—if you will 
ltivate the ability to do these things, there is 
►thing that can stop you from driving forward 
ward your goa 1 

























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Part Two 


•v 





THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 
by 

Frederick Stuart Greene 

(Published originally in The Metropolitan Maga¬ 
zine, August, 1916; reprinted in O’Brien’s “The 
3est Stories of 1916;” reprinted in “Thrice Told 
Tales,” 1924.) 

1. “Sally! O-oh, Sally! I’m a-goin’ now,” Jim 
jantt pushed back the limp brim of his rusty felt 
lat and turned colorless eyes toward the cabin. 

j 2. A young woman came from around the corner 
>f the house. From each hand dangled a bunch of 
quawking chickens. She did not speak until she 
lad reached the wagon. 

3. “Now, Jim, you ain’t a-goin’ to let them 
ellers down in Andalushy git you inter no blind 
jiger, air you?” The question came in a hopeless 
Irawl; hopeless, too, her look into the man’s shallow 
ace. 

4. “I ain’t tetched a drop in more’n three months, 
lias I?” Jim’s answer was in a sullen key. 

5. “No, Jim, you bin doin’ right well lately.” 
>he tossed the chickens into the wagon, thoughtless 
if the hurt to their tied and twisted legs. “They’re 
/orth two bits apiece, that comes to two dollars, 
im. Don’t you take a nickel less’n that.” 

6 . Jim gave a listless pull at the cotton rope 
hat served as reins. 


141 






142 THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 

7. “Git up thar, mule!” he called, and the wag< 
creaked off on wobbling wheels down the h( 
dusty road. 

8 . The woman looked scornfully at the mar 
humped-over back for a full minute, turned ai 
walked to the house, a hard smile at her mouth. 

9 . Sally Gantt gave no heed to her drab surroun 
ings as she crossed the short stretch from road 
cabin. All her twenty-two years had been spent 
this far end of Alabama, where one dreary, unkem 
clearing in the pine-woods is as dismal as the ne> 
Comparisons which might add their fuel to h 
smoldering discontent were spared her. Yet, u 
consciously, this bare, grassless country, with i 
flat miles of monotonous pine forests, its flatter mil 
of rank cane-brake, served to distil a bitter ga 
poisoning all her thoughts. 

10. The double cabin of Jim Gantt, its tv 
rooms separated by a “dog-trot”—an open por< 
cut through the center of the structure—was count 
a thing of luxury by his scattered neighbors. Gan 
had built it four years before, when he took up tl 
land as his homestead, and Sally for his wife. T. 
labor of building this cabin had apparently drain 
his stock of energy to the dregs. Beyond the nea 
sary toil of planting a small patch of corn, a small 
one of sweet potatoes and fishing in the sluggi 
waters of Pigeon Creek, he now did nothing. Sal 
tended the chickens, their one source of money, ai 
gave intermittent attention to the half-dozen raz( 
back hogs, which, with the scrubby mule, compris 
their toll of live-stock. 

11 . As the woman mounted the hewn log tl 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


143 


iswered as a step to the dog-trot, she stopped to 
stem From the kitchen came a faint noise; a sound 
: crunching. Sally went on silent feet to the door, 
n the table, littered with unwashed dishes, a cat 
as gnawing at a fish head;—a gaunt beast, its 
:an flanks covered with wiry fur except where 
igged scars left exposed the bare hide. Its strong 
iws crushed through the thick skull-bone of the 
sh as if it were an empty bird’s egg. 

12 . Sally sprang to the stove and seized a pine 
not. 

13. “Dog-gone your yaller hide!” she screamed. 
Git out of hyar!” 

14. The cat wheeled with a start and faced the 
roman, its evil eyes glittering. 

15. “Git, you yaller devil!” the woman screamed 
gain. 

16. The cat sprang sidewise to the floor. Sally 
ent the jagged piece of wood spinning through the 
ir. It crashed against the far wall, missing the 
east by an inch. The animal arched its huge body 
nd held its ground. 

| 17. “You varmint, I’ll git you this time!” Sally 
stooped for another piece of wood. The cat darted 
irough the door ahead of the flying missile. 

18. “I’ll kill you yit!” Sally shouted after it. 
An’ he kain’t hinder me neither!” 

19. She sat down heavily and wiped the sweat 
om her forehead. 


20. It was several minutes before the woman 
pse from the chair and crossed the dog-trot to the 



144 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


sleeping-room. Throwing her faded sunbonnet in 
a corner, she loosened her hair and began to bruj 
it. 

21. Sally Gantt was neither pretty nor handsom 
But in a country peopled solely by pine-wooc 
Crackers, her black hair and eyes, clear skin and whf 
teeth, made her stand out. She was a woman, an 
young. To a man, also young, who for two yeai 
had seen no face unpainted with the sallow hue ( 
chills and fever, no eyes except faded blue om 
framed by white, straggling lashes, no sound teetl 
and the unsound ones stained always by the snu 
stick, she might easily appear alluring. 

22 . With feminine deftness Sally re-coiled he 
hair. She took from a wooden peg a blue calic 
dress, its printed pattern as yet unbleached by th 
fierce sun. It gave to her slender figure some touc 
of grace. From beneath the bed she drew a pair c 
heavy brogans; a shoe fashioned, doubtless, to mate 
the listless nature of the people who most use them 
slipping on or off without hindrance from lace o 
buckle. As a final touch, she fastened about he 
head a piece of blue ribbon, the band of cheap sill 
making the flash in her black eyes the brighter. 

23. Sally left the house and started across th 
rubbish-littered yard. A short distance from th 
cabin she stopped to look about her. 

24. “I’m dog-tired of it all,” she said fiercel) 
u l hates the house. I hates the whole place, ar 
more’n all I hates Jim.” 

25. She turned, scowling and walked between th 
rows of growing corn that reached to the edge ( 
the clearing. Here began the pine woods, the or 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


145 


iving touch nature has given to this land. Beneath 
le grateful shade she hastened her steps. The 
- ees stood in endless disordered ranks, rising straight 
nd bare of branch until high aloft their spreading 
Dps caught the sunlight. 

26. A quarter of a mile brought her to the low- 
md. She went down the slight decline and stepped 
dthin the cane-brake. Here gloom closed about 
er, the thickly growing cane reached to twice her 
eight. Above the cane the cypress spread its 
ranches, draped with the sad, gray moss of the 
outh. No sun’s ray struggled through the rank 
Dliage to lighten the sodden earth beneath. Sally 
icked her way slowly through the swamp, peering 
rutiously beyond each fallen log before venturing 

further step. Crawfish scuttled backward from 
er path to slip down the mud chimneys of their 
jomes. The black earth and decaying plants filled 
le hot, still air with noisome odors. Thousands of 
idden insects sounded through the dank stretches 
jieir grating calls. Slimy water oozed from beneath 
le heavy soles of her brogans, green and purple 
lobbies were left in each foot-print, bubbles with 
iidescent oily skins. 

27. As she went around a sharp turn she was 
dught up and lifted clear from the ground in the 
|ms of a young man—a boy of twenty or there- 
oout. 

28. “Oh, Bob, you scairt me—you certainly air 
High!” 

29. Without words he kissed her again and again. 

30. “Now, Bob, you quit! Ain’t you had 
e.ough?” 


146 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


31. 1 ‘Could I ever have enough? Oh, Sally, 
love you so!” The words trembled from the bo) 

32. “You certainly ain’t like none of ’em ’roun 
hyar, Bob.” There was some pride in Sally’ 
drawling voice. “I never seed none of the me: 
folks act with gals like you does.” 

33. “There’s no other girl like you to mak 
them.” Then, holding her from him, he went o: 
fiercely, “You don’t let any of them try it, do you?’ 

34. Sally smiled up into his glowing eyes. 

35. “You knows I don’t. They’d be afeard o 
Jim.” 

36. The blood rushed to the boy’s cheeks, hi 
arms dropped to his side—he stood sobered. 

37. “Sally, we can’t go on this way any longer 
That’s why I asked you to come to the river to-day.’ 

38. “What’s a-goin’ to stop us?” A frightene( 
look crossed the woman’s face. 

39. “I’m going away.” 

40. She made a quick step toward him. 

41. “You ain’t lost your job on the new rail 
road?” 

42. “No—come down to the boat where we cai 
talk this over.” 

43. He helped her down the bank of the creel 
to a flat-bottomed skiff, and seated her in the steri 
with a touch of courtesy before taking the cross sea 
facing her. 

44. “No, I haven’t lost my job,” he began earn 
estly, “but my section of the road is about finished 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


147 


rhey’ll move me to another residency farther up 
:he line in about a week.” 

45. She sat silent a moment, her black eyes wide 
vith question. He searched them for some sign of 
Sorrow. 

46. “What kin I do after you air gone?” 

! 

47. There was a hopeless note in her voice—it 
pleased the boy. 

48. “That’s the point—instead of letting them 
nove me, I’m going to move myself.” He paused 
:hat she might get the full meaning of his coming 
yords. 

49. “I’m going away from here to-night, and 
”m going to take you with me.” 

50. “No, no! I dasn’t!” She shrank before his 
;teady gaze. 

51. He moved swiftly across to her—throwing 
lis arms around her, he poured out his words. 

52. “Yes! You will! You must!—You love me, 
lon’t you?” 

53. Sally nodded in helpless assent. 

54. “Better than anything in this world?” 

55. Again Sally nodded. The boy kissed her. 

56. “Then listen. To-night at twelve you come 
;o the river—I’ll be waiting for you at the edge of 
:he swamp. We’ll row down to Brewton, we can 
easily catch the 6:20 to Mobile, and, once there, 
ve’ll begin to live,” he finished grandly. 

57. “But I can’t! Air you crazy? How kin I 
tit away an’ Jim right in the house?” 



148 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


58. “I’ve thought of all that; you just let hir 
see this.” From beneath the seat he drew a bottk 
“You know what he’ll do to this—it’s the stronges 
corn whiskey I could find.” 

59. “Oh, Bob! I’m afeared to.” 

60. “Don’t you love me?” His young eye 
looked reproach. 

61. Sally threw both arms about the boy’s ned 
and drew his head down to her lips. Then she pushe( 
him from her. 

62. “Bob, is it so that the men-folks all say, tha 
the railroad gives you a hundred dollars ever} 
month?” 

63. He laughed. “Yes, you darling girl, and more 
I get a hundred and a quarter, and I’ve been getting 
it for two years in this God-forsaken country, anc 
nothing to spend it on. I’ve got over a thousanc 
dollars saved up.” 

64. The woman’s eyes widened. She kissed the 
boy on the mouth. 

65. “They ’lows as how you’re the smartesl 
engineer on the road.” 

66 . The boy’s head was held high. 

67. Sally made some mental calculations before 
she spoke again. 

68 . “Oh, Bob, I jes’ can’t. I’m ascairt to.” J 

69. He caught her to him. A man of longei 
experience might have noted the sham in her re¬ 
luctance. 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 149 

70. “My darling, what are you afraid of?” he 
:ried. 

71. “What air we a-goin’ to do after we gits to 
Mobile?” 

72. “Oh, IVe thought of everything—they’re 
Duilding a new line down in Texas—we’ll go there. 
I’ll get another job as resident engineer. I have my 
Drofession,” he ended proudly. 

, .73. “You might git tired, and want to git shed 
)f me, Bob.” 

74. He smothered her words under fierce kisses, 
dis young heart beat at bursting pressure. In bright 
colors he pictured the glory of Mobile, New Orleans, 
md all the world that lay before them to love each 
)ther in. 

75. When Sally left the boat she had promised 
o come. Where the pine-trees meet the cane-brake 
le would be waiting for her, at midnight. 

| 76. At the top of the bank she turned to wave. 

| 77. “Wait! Wait!” called the boy. He rushed 
ip the slope. 

78. “Quit, Bob, you’re hurtin’ me.” She tore 
lerself from his arms and hastened back along the 
limy path. When she reached the pine-woods she 
)aused. 

79. “More’n a thousand dollars!” she murmured, 
nd a slow, satisfied smile crossed her shrewd face. 

80. The sun, now directly over the tops of the 
rees, shot its scorching rays through the foliage, 
"hey struck the earth in vertical shafts, heating it 






150 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


to the burning point. Not a breath stirred tl 
glistening pine-needles on the towering branche 
It was one of those noontimes which, in the moisturi 
charged air of southern Alabama, makes life 
steaming hell to all living things save reptiles an 
lovers. 

81. Reaching the cabin, Sally went first to th 
kitchen room. She opened a cupboard and, takin 
the cork from the bottle, placed the whiskey on th 
top shelf and closed the wooden door. 

82. She crossed the dog-trot to the sleeping-rooi 
—a spitting snarl greeted her entrance. In the centc 
of the bed crouched the yellow cat, its eyes gleaming 
every muscle over its bony frame drawn taui 
ready for the spring. The woman, startled, dre^ 
back. The cat moved on stiff legs nearer. Ur 
flinchingly they glared into each other’s eye* 

83. “Git out of here afore I kill yer! You yalle 
devil!” Sally’s voice rang hard as steel. 

84. The cat stood poised at the edge of the bee 
its glistening teeth showing in its wide moutl 
Without an instant’s shift of her defiant stare 
Sally wrenched a shoe from her foot. The anim< 
with spread claws sprang straight for the woman 
throat. The cat and the heavy brogan crashe 
together in mid-air. Together they fell to the floor- 
the cat landed lightly, silently, and bounded throug 
the open door. 

85. Sally fell back against the log wall of t! 
cabin, feeling the skin of her throat with tremblir 
fingers. 

86. “Jim! Oh-h, Jim!” Sally called from tl 
cabin. “Come on in, yer supper’s ready.” 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


151 


87. “He ain’t took nothin’ to drink to-day,” 
he thought. “It’s nigh three months now, he’ll 
>e ’most crazy.” 

88. The man took a few sticks of wood from the 
;round, and came on dragging feet through the 
;loom. As Sally watched his listless approach, 
he felt in full force the oppressive melancholy of 
Ler dismal surroundings. Awakened by the boy’s 
;nthusiastic plans, imagination stirred within her. 
n the distance a girdled pine stood clear-cut against 
he horizon. Its bark peeled and fallen, left the dead, 
laked trunk the color of dried bones. Near the 
tunted top one bare limb stretched out. Unnoticed 
l thousand times before, to the woman it looked 
o-night, a ghostly gibbet against the black sky. 

89. Sally shuddered and went into the lighted 
litchen. 

90. “I jes’ kilt a rattler down by the woodpile.” 
dm threw down his load and drew a splint-bottomed 
hair to the table. 

91. “Ground-rattler, Jim?” 

92. “Naw, sir-ee! A hell-bendin’ big diamond- 
ack.” 

93. “Did you hurt the skin?” Sally asked quickly. 

94. “Naw. I chopped his neck clean, short to 
he haid. An’ I done it so durn quick his fangs is 
-stickin’ out yit, I reckon.” 

95. “Did he strike at you.” 

96. “Yes, sir-ee, an’ the pizen came out of his 
louth jes’ like a fog.” 

97. “Ah, you’re foolin’ me!” 



152 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


98. "No, I ain’t neither. I’ve heard tell of i 
but I never seed it afore. The ground was kind 
black whar he lit, an’ jes’ as I brought the a 
down on him, .thar I seed a little puff like, same £ 
white steam, in front of his mouth.” 

99. "How big was he, Jim?” 

100. '"Leven rattles an’ a button.” 

101. "Did you skin him?” 

102. "Naw, it was too durn dark, but I hun 
him high up, so’s the hawgs won’t git at him. Hi 
skin’ll fotch fo’ bits down at Andalushy.” 

103. "Ax ’em six, Jim, them big ones gittir 
kinda skeerce.” 

104. Jim finished his supper in silence—th 
killing of the snake had provided more conversatioi 
than was usual during three meals among the pine 
woods people. 

105. As Sally was clearing away the dishes, th 
yellow cat came through the door. Slinking clos< 
to the wall, it avoided the woman, and sprang upoi 
the knees of its master. Jim grinned into the eye 
of the beast and began stroking its coarse hair 
The cat set up a grating purr. 

106. Sally looked at the two for a moment ii 
silence. 

107. "Jim, you gotta kill that cat.” 

108. Jim’s grin widened, showing his tobacco 
stained teeth. 

109. "Jim, I’m a-tellin’ you, you gotta kill tha 
cat.” 

110. "An’ I’m a-tellin’ you I won’t.” 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


153 


111. "Jim, it sprung at me to-day, an’ would 
ave hurt me somethin’ tumble if I hadn’t hit it 
ver the haid with my shoe.” 

112. ^ “Well, you must ’a’ done somethin’ to make 
im. You leave him alone, an’ he won’t pester you.” 

113. The woman hesitated; she looked at the 
lan as yet undecided; after a moment she spoke 
gain. 

114. “Jim Gantt, I’m axin’ you for the las’ time, 
hich does you think more’n of, me or that snarlin’ 
armint?” 

115. “He don’t snarl at me so much as you does,” 
le man answered doggedly. “Anyway, I ain’t 
goin’ to kill him—an’ you gotta leave him alone, 
>o. You jes’ min’ yer own business an’ go tote 
le mattress out on the trot. It’s too durn hot to 
^ep in the house.” 

116. The woman passed behind him to the cup- 
>ard, reached up, opened wide the wooden door 
jtd went out of the room. 

117. Jim stroked the cat, its grating purr growing 
uder in the stillness. 

118. A minute passed. 

419. Into the dull eyes of the man a glitter came— 
Id grew. Slowly he lifted his head. Farther and 
fther his chin drew up until the cords beneath the 
d skin of his neck stood out in ridges. The nostrils 
> his bony nose quivered, he sniffed the hot air 
|e a dog straining to catch a distant scent. His 
tigue protruded and moved from side to side 
| r oss his lips. 




154 , THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 

120. Standing in the darkness without, the womai 
smiled grimly. 

121. Abruptly the man rose. The forgottei 
cat fell, twisted in the air and alighted on its feet 
Jim wheeled and strode to the cupboard. As hi 
hand closed about the bottle the gleam in his eye 
became burning flames. He jerked the bottle fron 
the shelf, threw his head far back. The fiery liquo 
ran down his throat. He returned to his seat, th 
cat rubbed its ribbed flanks against his leg, hi 
stooped and lifted it to the table. Waving the bottl 
in front of the yellow beast, he laughed: 

122. “Here’s to yer—and to’ad yer!” and swal 
lowed half a tumblerful of the colorless liquid. 

123. Sally dragged the shuck mattress to th 
dog-trot. Fully dressed, she lay waiting for mid 
night. 

124. An hour went by before Jim shivered th 
empty bottle against the log wall of the kitchen 
Pressing both hands hard upon the table, he heave( 
himself to his feet, up-setting the candle in the effort 
He leered at the flame and slapped his bare pah 
down on it, the hot, melted wax oozed up, unheeded 
between his fingers. Clinging to the table top, h 
turned himself toward the open door, steadied hi 
swaying body for an instant, then lurched forwarc 
His shoulder crashed against the door-post, hi 
body spun half-way round. The man fell fla 
upon his back, missing the mattress by a yarc 
The back of his head struck hard on the rough board 
of the porch floor. He lay motionless, his fee 
sticking up on the doorsill. 

125. The yellow cat sprang lightly over the falle 
body and went out into the night. 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


155 


126. Wide-eyed, the woman lay—watching, 
iter moments of tense listening the sound of faint 
reathing came to her from the prone figure. Sally 
'owned. “He’s too no ’count to git kilt,” she said 
loud, and turned on her side. She judged, from the 
tars, it was not yet eleven. Drowsiness came; 
he fell into uneasy slumber. 

127. Out in the night the yellow cat was prowling, 
t stopped near the wood-pile. With extended paw, 

: touched lightly something that lay on the ground, 
ts long teeth fastened upon it. The cat slunk off 
award the house. Without sound it sprang to the 
oor of the dog-trot. Stealthily, its body crouched 
)w, it started to cross through the open way. As 
: passed the woman she muttered and struck out 
i her sleep. The cat flattened to the floor. Near 
ae moving arm, the thing it carried fell from its 
peth. The beast scurried out across the opening. 

128. The night marched on to the sound of a 
lillion voices calling shrilly through the gloom. 

129. The woman awoke. The stars glowed 
ale from a cloudy midnight sky. She reached out 
er right hand, palm down, to raise herself from the 
ed, throwing her full weight upon it. Two needle 
pints pierced her wrist. A smothered cry was wrung 
■om her lips. She reached with her left hand to 
luck at the hurt place. It touched something cold, 
Dmething hard and clammy, some dead thing, 
he jerked back the hand. A scream shivered 
arough the still air. Pains, becoming instantly 
Ipute—unbearable, darted through her arm. Again 
lie tried to pull away the torturing needle points, 
ter quivering hand groped aimlessly in the darkness, 
he could not force herself, a second time, to touch 




156 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


the dead, clinging thing at her wrist. Screaming, si 
dragged herself to the man. 

130. “Jim, Tm hurt, help me! Help me!” 

131. The man did not move. 

132. “Jim, wake up! Help me!” she waile 
uselessly to the inert man. 

133. The terrifying pain spurted from wrist t 
shoulder. With her clenched left hand she bee 
against the man’s upturned face. 

134. “You drunken fool, help me! Take th 
thing away!” 

135. The man lay torpid beneath her poundin 

fist. . . . 

136. Along the path to Pigeon Creek, where th 
pine-woods run into the cane-brake, a boy waited- 
waited until the eastern sky grew from black to gra? 
Then with cautious tread he began to move, his fac 
turned toward the cabin. As he neared the clearin 
the gray in the east changed to red. He left the wood 
and entered the field of corn, his footfalls made n 
sound on the earth between the furrows. 

137. At the cabin he drew close against the wa 
and listened. A man’s heavy breathing reached h 
straining ears. Slowly he moved toward the oper 
ing in the middle of the house. Above the breathin 
he heard a grating noise; between the deep-draw 
breaths and the grating, another sound came to hin 
a harsh, rhythmic scratching. 

138. The edge of the sun rose abruptly above th 
flat earth, sending light within the opening. 

139. The boy thrust his head around the angl< 
A yellow cat was sitting at the foot of the mattres: 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 157 

om its throat grating purrs came in regular 
^asure; between each purr the beast’s spread claws 
itched and released the stiff ticking. 

140. Beyond lay the man. 

141. Between the cat and the man, stretched 
ross the shuck bed, was the woman; her gla'ssy 
es staring up into the grinning face of the cat. 
•om her shoulder, reaching out toward the boy, 
is a vivid, turgid thing; a hand and arm, puffed 
yond all human shape. From the swollen wrist, 
; poisoned fangs sunk deep into an artery, hung 
e mangled head of a snake. 

142. The swaying corn blades whipped against 
e boy’s white face as he fled between the rows. 


THE END 


ANALYSIS OF 

THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE ” 


The most significant fact about this story is th 
it could have but one ending. Every paragraj 
contains something which leads up to the logic 
climax. The effect of inevitability produced by th 
close adherence to the principle of unity, is rare 
equalled in modern fiction. It is highly possible th; 
the author had his climax first. There is a wealth 
local color and atmosphere brought out through d 
scription, excellent dialogue and careful charact 
delineation. The story is technically sound, proper 
motivated and the unities of effect, impression, ar 
time are well preserved. 

Para¬ 

graphs 

1 to 7—An opening remarkable for its atmosphe 
of futility and squalor, achieved with cor 
plete economy, in which we catch a viv 
impression of the two main characters ai 
the background against which they mo\ 
Note the effectiveness and naturalness 
the dialogue. Paragraphs 3-5, establish Jin 
craze for drink, and the fact that he has be 
abstaining motivates his reaction in Pai 
agraph 119, and makes the woman’s act! 
in Paragraph 81 more diabolical. No 
throughout this section the effects obtain 


158 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


159 


by a few carefully selected words and details. 

Note how much of Sally’s character is de¬ 
lineated in this sentence. 

} — The author has worked back from effect to 

cause, a device which, in this instance, de¬ 
velops more suspense than a reversal of the 
order. 

0— Additional details, each one selected with the 
one purpose of presenting a background of 
utter poverty; mitigating in a degree Sally’s 
discontent and her subsequent plan to flee. 

1— A paragraph which introduces the cat that 
plays a vital part in the narrative. It is not an 
ordinary cat. The author has made it a 
mysterious and ominous figure. Notice how 
this passage strikes a note of suspense and 
gruesomeness. 

2~18—Establish the hatred between Sally and the 

I cat, which makes her eventual death through 
the beast more tragic and significant. Note 
the intense dramatic force of a paragraph 
like 14, and the shrill terror of the entire 
section. 

0-22—Notice how much more effective this descrip¬ 
tion of Sally is at this point than it would be 
if placed in the beginning of the story. Here 
it leads directly into the love element and 
explains why a young man like Bob would 
find Sally attractive. The author happily 
has not made her conventionally pretty. 


160 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


25-26—A passage full of suppressed drama, in which 
the atmosphere of “sad gray moss,” “slimy 
water,” “decaying plants and noisome odors,” 
creates a feeling of oppression and impending 
tragedy. 

27-60—Establish convincingly Bob’s love for Sally 
and motivate his desire to take her away. 
Without this intensity of feeling on his part, 
the urgency would seem forced. There is 
evidence throughout this passage of what 
later becomes apparent, Sally’s shallow af¬ 
fection for Bob. 

61-79—Through this passage runs Sally’s calculat¬ 
ing desire to get away at any cost; her casual 
question in Paragraph 62, is a clever revela¬ 
tion of her character. At no time is there 
any feeling or real emotion in evidence. We 
pity her, but we do not sympathize with her. 
A different interpretation would make the 
climax almost unbearable. 

80— More details selected for their atmospheric 
effect. 

81— A brief incident which instantly adds suspense 
and marks the upward movement and im¬ 
placable march of events toward the tragedy. 

82— 85—A breathless incident, developing the line 

of conflict introduced in paragraphs 12-18, 
and preparing for the cat’s ironical victory 
in the subsequent action. One can readily 
see how much more dramatic the story is 
with this conflict between the cat and Sally 
than without it. 



THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


161 


17 Motivation for Tim’s ensuing drunkenness. 
Lacking this observation, his desire to drink 
in face of his long abstinence might be thought 
coincidental. 

£8— A.nother atmospheric passage ending on a 
gruesome and forboding note 

P— Note the effect of this sentence and then try 
it without the word, 1 ‘shuddering,” con¬ 
trasting the two effects. 

>0—103—Excellent motivation for the climax. The 
author has taken up the important points, 
in casual conversation so that they seemed 
to be a vital part of the narrative. While 
explaining the eventual tragedy they in no 
way give away the surprise. Note how 
Sally’s question, in Paragraph 93, which is 
dictated by the thought uppermost in her 
mind, money, leads to a bit of information 
which must be established, the fact that the 
fangs are sticking out and explains logically 
why they do. In the following paragraph, 
observe how a natural question is used to 
bring out another point of vital importance, 
the fact that the fangs were covered with 
poison. Her incredulity leads to an elabora¬ 
tion of this idea, which drives home indelibly 
this salient point. Note, also how the con¬ 
versation tapers off, instead of ending abruptly. 
This passage may be studied profitably for 
examples of exceptionally fine motivation. 

05-114—The cat’s affection for Jim has a symbolical 
significance. It seems to make the cat Jim’s 
avenger. 



162 THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 

115— Motivation for sleeping on the dog-trot. 

117-118—Note the accumulating suspense in these 
short sentences. 

122— A strange toast full of ironical and prophetic 
significance. 

124— Observe how the third and fourth sentences 
epitomize Jim’s drunken condition in a definite 
action which carries more conviction and sense 
of reality than description, and motivates 
his being knocked unconscious. 

126— If Jim had been killed there would have been 
no reason for Sally to wait. There is a certain 
amount of suspense until she hears the sound 
of breathing. 

127— The author has carefully motivated the cat’s 
finding of the snake’s head and by referring 
to it as “something” does not give his ending 
away. The very fact that it is something 
any old thing, in other words, tends to dis¬ 
tract attention from it. The enmity anc 
hatred and fear engendered in the cat by the 
woman, makes it seem logical that the cal 
would drop the snake’s head. 

129— Although there is a suggestion of what r 
responsible for Sally’s pain, notice how th( 
final divulgement is saved until paragrapl 
141. 

130- 135—An ironical twist,—the fact that the on< 

person in the world who could save her ha 
been rendered unconscious through her owi 


THE CAT OF THE CANE-BRAKE 


163 


efforts, and that the whiskey, the only remedy, 
was the medium she used to effect her end. 

136-142—A swift gathering of dramatic force. Ob¬ 
serve the effect gained by the cat’s purring, 
in contrast to the rest of the scene. 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 
By Katharine Newlin Burt 
(From Cosmopolitan , Jan. 1923) 

John Trent came into the presence of Delila 
Jameison and, with a quiver of his nerves like the 
quiver of a horse’s skin at the light touch of a spur, 
instantly abandoned his incredulity. It was not, 
he had told himself, smiling up his sleeve at the 
hushed voices of valley report, that she was a big 
frog in a little pool; it was that she would have been 
a big frog in any pool. She was, he admitted as 
her eyes flickered across him, one of those rare 
women who are the natural rulers and scorners of 
men. 

She sat at one end of her long log-built bare living 
room, her back against the wall, one hand resting 
on the littered pine board table before her, and 
looked casually from his lanky escort to him. He 
had been introduced briefly by his escort as a “hobo 
just in from outside lookin’ for a ranch job.” Delila 
Jameison acknowledged this introduction by a nod. 
Her beaked brown face, pouncing eyes and long, 
ironical, unfeminine mouth betrayed a terrible 
accuracy in comment. John felt that she knew his 
type, discerned the fundamental purposelessness oi 
his past existence, the gradual withdrawals of unused 
opportunities, the penalties of occasional reckless¬ 
ness. Whatever his guarded face could yield oJ 

164 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


165 


information, whatever deductions could be drawn 
from his ragged and dusty leanness of person and his 
cleanness of well shaven jaw, had been instantly 
yielded and deduced. 

She pulled ‘The makings” from her shirt pocket— 
it was a man’s blue chambray shirt open at the collar 
—rolled and lighted her cigarette with a merciless 
sort of leisureliness. 

“You can’t work at Circle R,” said Delila eventu¬ 
ally. “You’re too easy to look at. I don’t employ 
your sort—makes my girls trashy and my men sore.” 
Her voice was not unpleasantly like the sound of a 
saw singing through soft wood. It confirmed that 
little contracting comment of his nerves. 

The smile with which, ages of experience ago, John 
Trent had disarmed the angers of his English nurse, 
crept now into his bland English eyes. He twinkled 
i sweetly down upon the woman and said nothing. 
He was enormously afraid that he had failed, that 
he would really not be allowed to work for her, but 
this fear he managed to conceal behind his smile; 
even more carefully he hid a masculine resentment. 
She expected to bully him, did she?—this leathery¬ 
faced woman, gray in her hair, wrinkles about her 
eyelids, with her cigarette stained fingers, her shoul¬ 
ders tilted against a log wall—an uncouth, rugged 
and unlovely tyrant who owned more than a woman’s 
share of acreage and cattle. 

|| ‘‘Anyone tell you I needed a man?” she asked after 

she had observed his unrevealing smile, 
i “No one. I wanted to work—for you.” 

| She lifted a pair of beautiful dark crescent eye¬ 
brows. “For the land’s sake—why?” 

“I like to work for the biggest man in any county 




166 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


I happen into and you’re the biggest—man in Bear 
Valley. That’s why.” 

He couldn’t be sure that a faint stain painted her 
weatherbeaten cheeks. Certainly her eyes betrayed 
no softness of flattered vanity. But he had a sen¬ 
sation of successful diplomacy. Just before the des¬ 
perately calculated speech he had glanced at the big 
grizzled fellow who had led him up from the bunk 
house to the main cabin. From such men as these, 
quick deduction told him, she had not received any 
very deft sycophancy; homage at best had been 
expressed in action, in surly obedience or in slick 
subservience. There had been no man of them 
worthy of the superb quality which made her, shut 
in here by ignorance and mountain and narrow op¬ 
portunity, a sister of Great Catherine and Great 
Elizabeth. 

Half guessing the faint tingle his compliment ha‘d 
brought her, he felt a sudden warmth of sympathy, 
of understanding. As he stood there, his hand 
resting on her pine board council table, looking 
down at her from his slim height, he recognized 
that she was, for all the hawk glitter of her eyes and 
the grim sardonic twist of her lips, a caged creature. 
No, not hawk. Eagle! Those sun-gazing yellow 
eyes had their own haughty and mute wistfulness. 

“What’ll you do if I don’t take you on?” 

“Go on out of here.” 

“How about Van Breuwen? He’ll give you a job, 
likely. It’s branding time.” 

Trent’s face forgot itself and set. “I won’t work 
for that damned Dutchman.” 

Her brows lifted again. It was her one charming 
and feminine gesture. 



THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


167 


Trent went on slowly. “I fell in—and out—with 
him on my way up the country. He’s a mean man 
to work for and an ugly customer to work against, 
j If 1 stop in Bear Valley, I’ll work against him.” 

He got this out with sharpness and she seemed 
to bite at his words with a zest of attention. There 
went between them a current of electric comprehen¬ 
sion, interrupted by the appearance of someone to 
! speak to “the boss.” She waved Trent to one side, 
where he stood against the uncurtained window and 
; watched her at her dealings. His blood warmed to 
a vision of unique, exciting opportunity. Prime 
minister—well, foreman of Circle R. 

.To Delila, a fair, smooth, crafty looking fellow 
with ice-blue eyes was suggesting that she had made 
a blunder, which concerned “breeding through that 
stallion of Martin’s.” His suggestion was patiently 
listened to and demolished with a slow conclusive 
sarcasm. As the defeated critic turned to go, she 
drew her lash across his humiliation. “Carry it 
under your hat, Jeff Carey, that you’re not my 
| foreman—yet.” His face above his jaunty blue 
| silk scarf flamed to the Indian paintbrush dark red. 
He just caught, out of the corner of one troubled 
! eye, Trent’s involuntary little grin. There was, it 
appeared, an immediate resolution taken by Jeff 
j Carey to pass over humiliation to the smiler of such 
untimely smiles. As for Trent, he wanted to apolo¬ 
gize and felt the depression of a newly acquired 
i enmity. He had had so many enemies—curse that 
.rash expressiveness of feature! 

Delila beckoned to him and he moved forward 
| rather hopelessly. She was already figuring and did 
not look up. She spoke with her cigarette in the 
j corner of her lips. 



168 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


“Lost my roustabout yesterday,” she said. 'Tigs 
haven’t been fed today. Johnnie, take this young 
gentleman down and give him Piggy’s overalls and 
show him the trail to the garbage. After that, the 
wood pile. Nights, young fellow, you can fetch 
hot water to the bunk house for Dandy’s tub— 
that’s Carey, the man who just went out—and morn¬ 
ings, at five o’clock, set a bucket at my door and give 
me a call. Pay you forty dollars a month.” 

Trent bowed, looked her in the eyes and walked 
off behind the grinning ranch hand, perfectly con¬ 
scious that his (lush matched Jeff Carey’s and that 
he would have liked to kick his escort to a pulp. 
But, below the little prickings of humiliation and 
resentment, he felt that he made his goal and his 
heart sang. The girl—the girl—the girl. 

Down in the bunk house he donned Piggy’s overalls 
under the laughing comment of men whose day’s 
work was over and who were not loath to torment 
a newcomer of crispish speech and pronounced 
physical good looks. Their eyes, appraising him, 
were vain, sensitive and clear, the eyes of individ¬ 
ualistic frontiersmen, lonely, introspective, more like 
the eyes of women. They mocked as skilfully as 
girls. But Trent, with an English public school 
training in his past, with more than a dozen years 
of drifting hardship, soldiering and job hunting 
since, was ready enough with good-humored retort 
and hardy willingness to see the joke. He departed, 
grinning, with his wheelbarrow to the regions back 
of the ranch house where the neglected garbage 
awaited his attention. He found the big unsavory 
zinc can and, using the lean muscles of arm and back, 
he rolled it gingerly upon his tilted barrow. Then 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


169 


he straightened, turned, and in the open kitchen 
doorway saw the girl. 

Instantly he was aware of the beauty of the hour. 
He saw that dusk was blue, that above her there 
the mountains drifted up like dreams. He smelled 
the spice of sage, heard the voice of the river and a 
chord struck in the throat of a drowsy thrush. He 
knew that the lighted window square was a warm 
golden human light in contrast to the unearthly 
azures of the evening. She stood in her gingham 
dress and dried her hands on her skirt and smiled. 
Her face was rose all across its brow and widish 
:heek bones, down the clear chin and long, brown 
throat. 

“I didn’t know you just at first. I was kind of— 
surprised,” she said. 

i He came to the step below her door. He had been 
skeptical of such transfigurations as this one that had 
paught him up to a breathless sudden height. Now 
le was shy, speech left him, his tongue was heavy 
land his heart large. It seemed to be learning how 
jto beat. 

I “What’s your name?” he asked. 

| She laughed shyly. “Martha.” 

' “I came here—to be near you.” 

| Again she laughed, opening and closing her dark 
and rather timid eyes, and shaking her head vigor¬ 
ously. She was too shy to protest in speech. He 
watched the flush fade so that the little boyish 
freckles stood out again across her nose and cheeks. 
Her mouth was beauty, to be sculptured, painted, 
dreamed of, and, O Lord of Lovers! to be kissed. 
| “You weren’t angry with me, then—on the stage?” 
he stammered. “That big man, Van Breuwen, 
I didn’t make you think I was a boor, staring at you 



170 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


out of insolence? I begged your pardon—but 1 
need not have done so—I ought to Ve thrashed the 
ugly brute.” He sighed. “I’m too slow, some¬ 
times, with my fists.” 

“I don’t pay heed to Van Breuwen—anything 
he says.” She began picking at the bark alongside 
the door, looking down, her eyelashes moving as 
though she were angry and embarrassed. “If I did 
I’d run as far from him as the hills would let me. 
I’ve been scared of him ever since I came here. They 
say I’m foolish—that he’d be a great match for me. 
He would be—wouldn’t he?—with that big ranch 
and all his cattle.” 

“A match?” Trent repeated uncertainly, his heart 
shrinking. 

“He wants me—twice now he’s asked. Let’s 
not talk about him.” She let him see then the trou¬ 
bled uncertainty of her eyes, which held something 
that cried for help. They laughed suddenly. “Yoi 
may not be quick with your fists,” she said, “but 
you can look fierce!” 

“You were singing in the wagon,” said John 
“When Van Breuwen frightened you about m) 
staring, you stopped. The tune’s been bothering 
me ever since. Won’t you finish the song for me 
now?” He whistled a few doubtful notes. 

She looked at him with too ready an obedience— 
life had made her docile—and sang, her eyes fillec 
with an anxious sort of pleasure, moving her heac 
a little to mark the irregular rhythms. 

“Whippoorwill, I hear you calling me—” 

A voice inside the kitchen clamored like an iror 
bell. “O Martha! Say, Martha!” 

She turned instantly; her eyes grew great witl 
laughter. She went in tilting back her head, singing 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


171 


to show him the ludicrous appositeness of the 
summons¬ 
'd hear you calling me—Whippoorwill!” 

John walked six blind steps from the empty door 
and leaned against a fence which seemed to grow 
out of the ground to stop him. She was the very 
body of all the homeless longings of his brain. Why? 
Why? In God’s name—why? After a world’s ex¬ 
perience, dingy and divine—this ranch child, sent 
down on the mail stage to town to do feminine 
errands for Circle R, perched like a gay little bird 
beside him all one day long, jolting across miles of 
sage, shy, never speaking, and singing under her 
breath until she became too self-conscious when Van 
Breuwen boarded the wagon, looked frightened at 
the sudden quarrel between him and Trent, and went 
dumb. Only one day, and that four days ago, but 
; now she was his for always—she must be for always, 
his. 

A faint stench of the pig sty drifted across the 
| sage, and with it a realization, hideous and over- 
t whelming, of his utter poverty, his failures, his home- 
I lessness. John Trent, thirty years old, gentleman 
and vagrant, could not ask even this little ranch girl 
; to be his wife. 

He looked up at the groping mountains, dark to 
his vision, and he had a sense of confinement, at 
j first alarming, then subtly reassuring. He had been 
| set down at last in a narrow place. The ambition 
; which had flashed up in him when he stood before 
Delila Jameison’s council table revived. Here was a 
; kingdom as large as one of those medieval states 
| where soldiers of fortune had won power in the serv- 
I ice of such women. If, adroit, intelligent, ruthless, 

I he became her prime minister, her necessity—Queer 


172 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


how the mountains shut you in—and out—and wrote 
forgetfulness like a spell across the sky. . . He 

straightened, walked back to the barrow and, lift¬ 
ing its weight vigorously, moved with long steps 
across the rough ground in the direction of the sty. 
His eyes held the splendor of an evening star, sud¬ 
denly discovered by that seeking mountain head. 

The months that followed ran with all the energy 
of a driven machine. Love, hatred, ambition 
throbbed with concentrated force. Against his rival 
in diplomacy, Jeff Carey, and against his rival in 
love, Pier Van Breuwen, Trent delved, doubled, 
writhed and struck, wrestler and pugilist by turns. 
Closer and closer his determined loyalty drew him 
to the eagle woman. 

In modern frontier states as in medieval prin¬ 
cipalities, opportunity for promotion, recognition of 
special gifts, comes swift and soon. Circle R was 
not slow to discover the quality of its new rousta¬ 
bout. Trent kept himself in his employer’s eye by 
clever contrivance, by a bettering of the pigs’ en¬ 
vironment, by the invention of a tin-lined tank 
superimposed upon an iron stove which gave the 
ranch a perpetual supply of hot water. Shaving 
became the fashion and the dishwasher smiled. 
Presently came haying season and all hands were 
called out to service in the fields. More important 
even than stock in this mountain valley was the winter 
fodder. The prosperity of Circle R rested on the 
produce of Delila’s broad bright acres of hay and 
grain. She was field marshal herself, now running 
a tractor, now driving a team, now stirring sluggards 
with a biting comment, now humorously sympathetic 
with the spitting ruminative prophecies of some old 
hand. She summoned Trent with an alarming bugle 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


173 


call of his first name, “You, John!” from his handling 
of a pitch-fork and, while he awaited a summary 
dismissal or a sharp reprimand, she called another 
blue-clad figure down from the seat of a mowing 
machine. 

“You climb up there, Trent, and let this boob 
mishandle your pitchfork. What he don’t know 
about machinery would fill a mail order catalogue 
from cover to order blanks.” 

Trent, flushed, climbed up—and spurned the first 
step of his ambition’s ladder. Dandy’s observant 
sneers only sharpened his appreciation; and, servitor 
of love as the sunburnt soldierly vagabond had be¬ 
come, he had a vision of reward that stood up as 
beautiful in the golden harvest fields as Ruth. 

It was curious how he and Martha guarded their 
| secret. She was a silent, supple-minded girl, soul 
and body made on the same pattern. Her intelli¬ 
gence, lambent beneath the shyness of her eyes and 
speech, seemed to follow the turnings of his unspoken 
thoughts and glowed upon them. He had learned 
| in queer, breathless, half secret interviews, her 
| history. She had been left a little penniless seven- 
year-old outcast in Chicago by the death of an un- 
; married mother. She had spent her childhood in 
foundling home and orphanage. At fourteen she 
had rebelled against a matron and, remembering 
the aunt whose name her mother had whispered to 
her so fearfully that it had left a scar of unspoken 
dread of this Delila Jameison, she had lifted courage 
in both hands and had run away over half a continent 
to Circle R. 

Recalling his own sensations when he first stood 
before Delila, John Trent exclaimed: “You must 




174 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


have wished yourself back in the orphanage when 
you saw your aunt!” 

Martha tilted up to him the honest amazement of 
her eyes, 41 Why, no. I was scared until I saw her. 
And then I couldn’t understand why mother hadn’t 
sent me to her straight. Aunt Lila might have been 
ashamed of me. But she just gave me one look-over 
and said: 'You’ve the Jameison chin and yellow 
eyes. Go wash up my dishes, Marty!’ ” 

The eyes of the eagle? Oh, no! thought Trent— 
dark, soft and tender eyes, golden only when the 
sun crept into their secrecy. There was nothing of 
the eagle about this girl. She might suggest a feather 
from the great swooping wing; a light, clean, drifting 
feather—no more of the eagle nature than that. 
Even her quick intelligence had none of Delila’s 
pouncing, preying swiftness. It followed stronger 
flights with pretty sweeps and turnings like a swal¬ 
low’s dark dusk. The two women occupied his whole 
imagination in the intense, narrow but wonderfully 
complete absorption of his life. The mountain range 
had chopped his existence in two. 

The autumn chance gave his fortunes an upward 
jolt. During the summer he had had occasional 
experience with cattle on the range; he had proved 
himself a horseman and betrayed a natural eye foi 
stock; so, when an epidemic of "flu” struck the valle> 
and Delila’s cleverest man, Carey, as well as hei 
trustiest, Mac Campbell, were laid on their backs 
she blindfolded caution, yielded to intuition as ever 
an eagle woman will, and sent Trent out over the 
hill in charge of the October drive. He took out hi: 
steers in the face of a driving wind, met a blizzarc 
in the canyon and, in spite of the unwilling obedience 
of his lieutenants, minded to show this upstar 






THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


175 


where self-confidence falls over on its nose—he came 
back to Circle R with the record of a good sale and 
not a steer lost. He came back, besides, with a frost¬ 
bitten cheek, a gaunt body and a new permanent line 
’ between his eyebrows. 

He sat with Delila that night before her stove in 
consultation. He had, on his journey, fallen in and 
out again with Van Breuwen; also, he had a sug¬ 
gestion to make concerning that property, so close 
to hers, so valuable, so mismanaged by the heavy 
witted Dutchman. 

And late, very late, creaking home over the dry 
snow to the bunk house, where Dandy ruled and made 
his refuge thorny, he whistled softly under Martha's 
window, and in the frosty stillness governed by the 
icy mountain peaks, their breath mounting in silver 
i feathers, the stars clamorous with leaping light, he 
knew the exquisite warm reality of her kiss. He 
wanted to speak to her then, but she put her cheek 
across his mouth, whispering “Hush! Hush!" as if 
words would hurt her quivering silence like the 
crudity of blows. 

| In winter, when Martha, obedient to Delila, pulled 
herself out of her lover’s life and went down the valley 
for schooling, Trent’s blood mounted from his hollow 
heart to his wits and, with Delila’s confidence, he 
schemed. The bank, it appeared, had refused Van 
Breuwen a loan. A dry summer, followed by a 
long feeding season, left many ranchmen in the 
valley ruined that spring and Van Breuwen must 
have “gone under’’ if the bank, after a secret con- 
isultation with Trent as Circle R’s representative, 
had not placed a short and heavy mortgage on his 
land. There followed another bad summer; the 
price of steers crashed. In November, her cattle 


176 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


driven out and sold, her grain and hay safely in her 
barns and stacks, Delila made a feast to the country 
side. Van Breuwen was not invited. Circle R was 
celebrating the acquisition of his ranch. The mort¬ 
gage had been foreclosed and it came then to light 
that Circle R was back of the loan and now stretched 
itself for another two thousand acres. The valley 
shrunk about it to a fringe. 

Perhaps Van Breuwen, that November day, prowl¬ 
ing about his ranch house, traced down the perse¬ 
cution to its source and remembered with some rue¬ 
fulness his insult to a dark-eyed girl. At her last 
and most resolute refusal of his hand he had said: 
“You’ve lost your chance to be respectable—I’ll 
make you what your mother was—” He had left 
her trembling, so white, that her little freckles stood 
out black against the fine skin, tears burning across 
her cheeks, her fists clenched. The next time he 
had seen Trent the young man’s face had been like 
marble. And Trent was Circle R’s representative 
all over the valley—curse him! Why shouldn’t the 
coward fight like a man with his fists instead of 
stealing a fellow’s land—and girl—from him? So 
Van Breuwen, alone, lumbered to and fro like a 
wounded bear, his blue eyes bloodshot and his face 
reddened with drink. 

For Delila Jameison the acquisition of his ranch 
was a royal dream of diplomacy fulfilled. 

Having helped in kitchen and living room since 
the crack of day—a bleak and shallow crack between 
stone-colored clouds and snow-streaked mountains—- 
the head of Circle R withdrew to dress herself in all 
that was most magnificent. Satisfied presently with 
her appearance, she went to sit in the small counting 
house, to which her pine board table had been re- 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


177 


moved to make room for the festival. She folded 
her hands together and silently exulted. She wore 
a purple silk dress, cut to a V, and changing where 
it rustled into gold. Her gray-streaked heavy hair 
was dressed high on her head, her throat was banded 
with twinkling jet. Flushed, with brilliant yellow 
eyes, she had a regal presence. Jeff Carey, knocking 
too softly, stepped in and moistened his lips once 
before he pushed to the door behind him. 

Jeff’s own magnificence of crimson scarf, silk 
shirt, studded belt, new overalls and beaded boots 
accentuated his snaky slenderness and narrow pallor 
of his face and eyes. He came nervously across the 
floor and stood beside her, bending down a little, 
speaking in the voice of conspiracy, sugar-sweet 
but vibrantly suggestive of alarm. 

“I’d like a word with you, ma’am, before” — he 
jjerked his head towards the adjoining room — “the 
i show begins.” 

She smiled and bowed her head. 

Jeff cleared his throat and a slow flush mounted 
against his will across his face. 

!' “Does anyone but you, ma’am, know the combina¬ 
tion of that safe?” 

They both glanced across the room to the clumsy, 

! old-fashioned receptacle of what wealth Delila kept 
in the ranch house. Her face had changed and her 
eyes were very shrewd. 

1, "John Trent—yes.” 

“Well, ma’am—I’ve been suspecting that fellow. 
I haven’t said nothing to you because you seemed so 
(Isot on him. He’s a good looker—likely any woman 
would—” He hastened, stumbling before the queer 
expression which had come about her lips: “But 
I’ve been watching him—the boys hev watched him 

i 


178 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


some, too. They’re good boys and every last man 
of them’s my friend. You can ask the bunk house 
what it thinks of Trent and me. Well, ma’am—I’ve 
got my evidence. In the box under his bed Trent’s 
hidden a wad of cash—the boys’ pay. Find out for 
yourself if he ain’t plannin’ to make his getaway 
tonight.” 

Delila rose, strode with steps too long for the cut 
of her scant ankle length skirt and too heavy for the 
build of her high heeled slippers, to the safe, where 
she twirled the knob, swung back.the door and made 
a brief inspection. She shut the safe with a sharp 
click. 

“He’s taken the money, sure enough, Jeff,” she 
said, smiling thinly. “He knows the combination, 
but—he left the safe open for ten minutes yesterday 
when I called him out to see Martin. That was right 
careless of him. I told him so. He said there 
wasn’t anyone about and he ran back and shut it 
quickly. I heard the bang. He didn’t stop to look 
inside before he shut the safe. Well, sir”—here 
she began to drawl terribly—“guess he took the cash 
all right unless during those ten minutes some other 
candidate for foreman’s been smart enough to take 
it out and load him up with it.” 

Silence occupied the room like a full-bodied visitor. 
They could hear the slow cold wind singing about 
the cabin corners. 

“After dinner’s over, when some of our guests 
have gone, you can come in here and face me—and 
Trent—with that story, Jeff. Until then—use your 
tongue for eating, and don’t go back to the bunk 
house. You’re pretty enough now for any party—- 
pretty enough to fool any woman under fifty.” 

She appraised the smoothly departing figure. 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


179 


Trent weighs about thirty pound heavier than you 
and he s studied fighting. I can tell by his eye and 
the way he moves his hands when he’s angry. I’m 
always scared of a man that isn’t very ready with 
his fists. Eat a good dinner, Jeff—and try the punch. 
It tastes fine.” 

She laughed, the rarest of her articulations, smote 
the council table with her hand and, biting at her 
lip, followed Carey into the long room where her 
quests were gathering to Trent’s welcome before a 
big and blazing hearth. 

Martha, in blue crepe, arms bare to the elbow, 
ankles and feet trim in white cotton stockings and 
black cross-strapped slippers, drifted about the table 
with dazed bright eyes, her cheeks as warm as June. 
Not once had Trent looked at her. Their long 
secret, as skillfully conducted as a court intrigue, 
ay like a nest under branches in their united con¬ 
sciousness. But Trent’s face above his sober flannel 
:ollar, gleamed. 

| That afternoon now was about three hours old; 
leighboring ranchmen and their wives, boys of 
Circle R with girls, boys and girls of other brands, 
‘aces brown and rough, wind-burned eyes, marshalled 
:hemselves about the board which stretched the full 
ength of the long warm room. Firelight danced 
orgetful of cruelly singing wind and the dark sky. 
Delila sat at one end of the table and Trent was 
bidden with her familiar bugle note of command to 
)ut himself at the other. He looked a little startled, 
rhere were dark faces as well as bright ones turned 
:o watch him take that place. Much eating followed, 
md little talk. When Circle R feasts, the food’s 
:he thing. Martha and her companions grew rosier 
vith swift, untiring service. Delila ate royally but 


180 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


drank little. There was punch of considerable 
potency. 

After two hours of steady plying of her guests 
with food, the hostess stood up there against her 
logs. They all looked to her and their eyes recog¬ 
nized, perhaps, some of the woman’s trammeled 
greatness. She made her announcement, smiling 
along the table, showing her splendid teeth. 

“Circle R has spread its wings, folks, to cover the 
neighboring homestead. The Lazy O brand has 
joined the Circle R. Van Breuwen’s sold out.” 

Van Breuwen’s unpopularity fanned up a loud 
applause. 

“I have also to announce,” went on Delila, “the 
appointment of a foreman to my joint property. 
I want to name the man who has done more for my 
interests and my ambitions during the past eighteen 
months than any boy that ever drew my pay. . 1 
John Trent.” 

Punch, holiday feeling, the comfort of satisfied 
digestion, as well as admiration, male and female, 
for the suddenly pale young prime minister, helped 
to swell throats and drown the silences of envy. 

Trent rose and briefly, almost shyly, spoke. He 
praised his eagle mistress. He told them it was “a 
good outfit to work for, that such a leader as Miss 
Jameison made work—he faltered and used a phrase 
that startled his hearers—“a sharp delight.” The 
eagle eyes understood. He read their wistfulness. 

But down in his silent heart, forgetful of diplomacy, 
he sang the potency of love. Martha, standing 
against the wall, crushed her hands together and 
winked at the triumphant tears. They could not 
be controlled; she fied to the cold quieting spaces 
where, a tall pine between her and the house, she 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


181 


aced the grim late afternoon and throbbed with 
er human happiness. She stood out there in the 
•leak stretch of ground under iron mountains and 
teadily moving dark sky, like a torch. Winter had 
o power over her young blood, marching against 
im, bannered. But something else had power and 
11 her blood stopped dead when Trent, coming 
oftly, under the branches, gathered her up against 
im—all of her, in tight arms. 

He put his mouth to her ear and said: 

“Now! Martha.” 

“You mean?” she turned her head so that she 
ould look into his eyes. 

“I mean—Delila’s waiting to see me and Carey. 
Ve asked her for five minutes first—alone. I’m 
oing to tell her about us, Martha, our love. I’m 
oing to ask her to give us a cabin for our own. I’m 
oing to ask her if she doesn’t want her foreman to 
e a married man.” 

Martha, as though suddenly she felt the cold, 
hivered. 

“Not now,” she begged, “not now.” 

“Why not—you queer child?” 

“I'm afraid.” 

“How I do love you! You small coward! Do you 
link I can wait another hour after all these hours 
f years?” 

“And you want to go—now—and tell her, ask 
er about—me?” 

“Yes. Now—now—now! Love has been choked 
iwn in me so long that I am eaten up by it. It’s 
it to have its way. Think how I’ve worked— 
od!—and sweated and frozen and held back. Now 

the time. Winter’s coming. Don’t you feel the 
ind? Don’t you smell the snow? I want you here, 



182 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


warm in my arms. Last winter, when you left me—’ 

“John, listen! You want to tell Aunt Lila nov 
when she’s given you the biggest reward in her powe; 
that you’ve done this work for just me! Pleas< 
listen! You are her foreman, her—well—Dandy 
who’s so clever with the men, calls you her ‘favorite. 
This dinner’s been given just for you. Today sorl 
of winds up your work, what you’ve done for her 
I mean. It’s something she only dreamed of—bein£ 
the boss of the whole valley—but you’ve made ii 
come true. Now, when she’s given you the besi 
she has, you come to her and you say ‘Let me marr) 
little Martha,’ just when she’s thinking you al 
hers, for her plans, her future work. Oh, can’t yoi 
see?” 

Trent shook his shoulders stubbornly. 

“No—damned if I can see. Is she a generou: 
woman, your aunt—or not?” 

Martha struck his chest lightly with a smal 
urgent hand. “John! John! Yes, she’s generous 
but you don’t understand her—well, any woman¬ 
like I do. You see, she’s awfully proud. You’v< 
done a lot for her and, what’s more, for her ranch 
which is just her child. What did you tell me yoi 
said to her—you’re so smart!—when you asked he: 
for a job, way back that first day?” 

“I don’t know. Let me go in, Martha.” 

She clung. “Wait! I can tell you what you said 
‘I want to work for the biggest man in Bear Valley 
and that’s you.’ Didn’t she take you on because o 
that speech? Now you want to go and tell her, ‘ 
was working not for you and Circle R all this time 
but for—Martha.’ See!” 

“Well, why not?” 

“Because it’ll be the end of you, John Trent.’ 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


183 


She looked away to the iron hills, moving her soft- 
haired head, restless and sad. Her eyes had lost 
their pretty love laughter. They were desolate. 
He took off his coat, put it around her and said: 
“Wait here, you darling fool, I’m going in.” 
i She seized him then. “Don’t do it, John! Or 
at least don’t do it like that! Don’t tell her the 
whole truth suddenly. You’re clever. Can’t you 
put it some way like this? You’ve worked for her— 
yes—you’ve devoted your whole strength and brain 
and feeling to her work. But you’re a man and she’s 
a woman. She’s too high up for you to think of, 
but while you work and sort of—worship her, there’s 
a little niece you kind of get into the way of telling 
how you feel towards the greater woman—so grad¬ 
ually, being hopeless—” 

! Trent laughed and a snowflake touched his lips, 
j “All right. I can put it like that if you think that 
llwill make her happier. I think she’s too great a 
[Woman to need such flatteries. My way would be— 
ithe whole truth.” 

I “But I know her, John. I love her. Please do it 
my way.” 

| She pulled herself up, both hands on his shoulders, 
and pressed her lips upon his. 

! “Anything for that!” he whispered, when he could 
jispeak, and went away, alert and smiling. 

Martha shrank into his big coat, drew herself 
under the tree and waited, pale now and tremulous. 
Suspense gave her a sensation of sickness. The fine 
mow began to sift across the ground, dusting the 
sage and the fence rails, the corner logs of the cabin 
)nly a yard away. She could hear the murmur of 
Trent’s voice, hesitant, groping, shy. She wondered 
f he were clever at such diplomacy as this. Abruptly 



184 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


he was silent. A chair scraped, Delila said a quic 
word or two. A door opened and shut. Marth; 
parting the branches, saw her aunt walking swiftl 
towards her. The eagle eyes flared soft and we 
the mouth trembled, the hands moved against eac 
other. “Martha! Martha!” It was an urgent so 
calling for help. 

Martha stepped out and Delila clung to he 
drew her back into the shelter of the swinging bougl 
and began to talk breathlessly. 

“Marty, is it true? Speak—quick!” 

“Y-yes—why, yes.” 

“Oh, God!” The woman put her shaking fingei 
across her face. “Then it don’t seem funny to yoi 
Or out of all sense? You’re so young and prett] 
like a rose. I thought he must love you, just seeiii 
you about. I didn’t believe a man would work lit 
he did except for loving someone. And why wouldn 
it most naturally be you?” 

Martha gasped once and stood still. Deli! 
whispered on. “I’m near to hfty. They tell yo 
or I guess you just tell yourself, that you’re too ol< 
It’s too late; leave the loving to girls. Be—just 
ranchman, go on, get rich, be the biggest man i 
Bear Valley. And so you get older and harder ar 
you don’t care for the gray hairs coming in or tl 
wrinkles round your eyes. But all the while w£ 
down you know that, being a woman, nothing : 
your life is good for anything but love. Don’t yc 
forget that, Marty, when your time comes! Lov 
Just love. Give it and get it, let the rest go b 
You know I love you, girl.” 

“I love—you,” Martha murmured. 

“I guess you did it, Marty. He told you thing 
Hadn’t it been for you he’d never have dared. Liste 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


185 


vhen he came in to ask me for something I thought 
t would be for you. That’d be so natural. And I’d 
lave told him, “Sure, go ahead and marry her!’ 
hough it felt tight inside my heart. But, Marty, 
le told me—Oh God—don’t smile!” 


“I’m not smiling Aunt Lila,” the girl whispered 
Trough her shuddering. 

“He told me over and over again—about love. He 
ladn’t dared—but he’d worked for me. He thought 
)f you, he said, as something near to me—like me. 
Harty, there are men, clever men, that’d think 
nore of all the everlasting love and worship and power 
’d give them—wouldn’t they?—than just of brown 
yes and pink cheeks. There have been women 
vho’ve loved great older men. When he was speak- 
,ng, trying to tell me—I was scared. I felt like chok- 
ng. Everything broke up inside of me. I told him 
o wait. I must go out and speak to you . . . 

nother woman.” 


| She started violently. “There he comes now. 
jdartha! Martha!” 

He strode up close and, turning his white face and 
teady eyes to Delila, he took Martha into his arms. 

“I want her,” he said quietly. “She’s what I 
iyant. I was trying in a stupid, muddled, half lying 
(ray to tell you so.” 

Martha writhed against him, put up her hands 
his lips. “Only because you think you can’t get 
her, John. Only because you think she’s too great 
l woman for you.” 

Delila was looking swiftly from one to the other 
f them, a terrible change in her eyes. 

No, by God!” swore Trent and laughed out be¬ 
tween the two tormented beings. 

Ij “I want you for yourself. She’s big enough to 




186 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


understand. I tried to put it the way you wanted 
Martha, but that won’t do.” He held out his righ 
hand to the eagle woman. “You’re great and you r< 
generous. I loved your niece. That s why I canr 
here. I worked for you, yes, with all my mind, am 
I’m your man always, but I worked to win her— 
Martha. Now let me see the stuff you’re made of 
Delila Jameison.” 

She had a bleak gray face. She turned on he 
heel and strode away from them. 

Trent laughed angrily. “Women like lies bette 
than truth—even you, Martha. Kiss me.. I’l 
forgive you for twisting me out of my own inten 
tions.” 

“It’s too late,” Martha sobbed. “I’m afraid 
You ought to take her, John. See, you were mad 
to be a great man. She is the woman you ought t 
marry. I was trying to let you go.” 

“Stop trying!” he said sharply. 

A girl came to the cabin corner, sheltered her eye 
against the snow-filled air and called: “O-o-c 
Martha! Martha! Miss Jameison wants you.” 

Martha tore herself from Trent and ran acros 
the open space into the house as a moth flies straigh 
into the fire. Trent moved a few steps and hi 
body struck the fence. He stood with his hea 
down, the light snow drifting across him, and re 
membered an azure evening, a groping mountai 
head, a star. 

The air had grown warmer with the coming ( 
snow. Behind him, around the corner of the builc 
ing, the guests were leaving with sound of whee 
and hoofs muffled. It was getting dark. Ligh 
were showing in the cabin windows. Dishes wei 
being washed, with rattling and laughter. t 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


187 


began to walk moodily to and fro, restless, uneasy 
and depressed. He wanted to stay out here in the 
whirling dimness until the two women should have 
cried themselves out to each other’s hearts. A sort 
of horror of emotion, of Delila Jameison, was upon 
him. He wondered if he were coward enough to 
be afraid. Then, after an age of still darkness^ his 
summons came, he did not run, blindly brave, like 
Martha; he dragged himself over to the house on 
leaden feet. 

He came into the living room and faced Delila. 
The long boards that had done service for the feast 
had been cleared of dishes and of draperies. They 
stretched, as bare and dry as years of lost labor, 
between the woman and himself. She pointed him 
to stand at the foot. He saw then that a dozen men, 
Dandy among them, were lined up on either side of 
her. All were standing except Delila, who sat with 
incandescent eyes in a drawn beaked face. 

Under her hand lay a roll of bills and a bag of 
silver money. She spoke with the voice of a dull 
saw driven through hard wood. 

“Boys,” she said, “I’ve been a fool, but it isn’t 
too late yet to admit it. That young gentleman 
was too clever for me. Jeff Carey gave me a hint, 
but I was set in my own opinion. Today, before I 
made him foreman—likely he hadn’t guessed at my 
intentions—there was found under Trent’s bed 
hidden at the bottom of his box the money that 
I’d drawn to pay you fellows off with—the whole of 
it—for a season’s labor. Today I found out he was 
planning to carry off my money and my niece. 
Lucky Jeff Carey found him out—and Martha talked 
to me ... in time.” 

The men moved, and swore, boards creaking be- 


188 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


neath their feet. They breathed rapidly. Trent, 
half closing his dizzy eyes, thought of a pack of dogs. 
The other method, Dandy’s, was the safer, then. 
Keep your hands on the pulse of the people, be 
flattering, adroit, study the mob. Let the queen 
favor whom she will. The queen was speaking 
again. 

“Now, since I’ve caught him with the goods and 
since we’re none of us losers, I’m not going to hand 
him over to the law. I’m going to hand him over 
to you boys. It was from you he was going to steal, 
wasn’t it? Carry him down to the bunk house 
quietly—I don’t want any rumpus on the way; 
Parson’s turned in and Doc—but down there, when 
you’re good and through with him, let him loose. 
He can travel down country afoot, like he came. 
Don’t kill him. I’d suggest”—for a second she lost 
control of the boiling tumult of pain, humiliation, 
jealousy that scalded her breast, and snarled, lean¬ 
ing towards him—“a quirt.” 

Trent spoke. “Where’s Martha?” he asked 
quickly. 

“Come back and ask me when you’ve had your 
licking,” said Delila. “Maybe I’ll tell you then.” 

Dandy and Scout took him by the arms and he 
walked between them quietly out into the snow. 
He remembered with a queer detachment some 
scene from medieval history read out to him when he 
was a child. Wasn’t this always the end of the 
favorite, the queen’s plaything—hard hands of a 
mob, torture, death? In the bunk house, with a 
sudden wrench, he freed himself and set his back 
against the wall. He spoke with his bland English 
smile. 

“No use telling you men that I didn’t take the 



The EAGLE’S LEATHER 


m 


money,” he said. “Why should I, when I’d so soon 
be drawing a foreman’s wages?” 

“Ah, but you didn’t know that when you took 
it—damn you!” 

“Well, that’s so. It’s no use. Dandy’s primed 
you against me. God knows he’s been at it long 
enough. But this is a good country—a man’s 
country. I ask you, because you’re square, for fair 
play. You’re a dozen to one. If, after you’re 
through, there’s anything left of me, will you let me 
off? I’ve worked with you for nearly two years—” 
There was a pause; he swallowed audibly. “Boys, 
I don’t like the idea of a quirt.” He looked about 
the room from face to face. “Isn’t that fair?” he 
asked gently. 

Well, they argued, he hadn’t been a bad sort; 
he’d been a decent fellow enough; a fight was always 
I worth looking at; five fights in succession, something 
of a treat. Perhaps the man in them half guessed 
at the woman in Delila’s vengeance. Dandy strug¬ 
gled against the rising change of humor. 

“What did the boss say? Hold him down on his 
bunk, a couple of you, and the five best men will 
; take it out of him, one by one with my quirt. That’s 
orders.” 

No, sir—public opinion ran—thief or not, he’s 
; too good a man for that sort of thing. You can be 
I the fifth to stand up to him, Dandy, and if after 
I Scout and Buster and two others have finished with 
him, you can’t quirt him without sitting on his 
head, why, he’s earned his getaway, I’ll tell the world— 

Dandy was clever enough to recognize finalities. 

! He drew back his lips, sat down on the edge of his 
bunk, smoking and swinging his booted leg. The 
; floor was cleared. John pulled off his flannel shirt 


190 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


and stepped into the middle of the ring; white and 
hard as marble with glinting eyes and a set smile. 
A little feverish child’s hand seemed to be plucking 
at his heart. It was for Martha’s hand he fought. 

Delila sat at the end of her table and broke her 
heart slowly on a wheel. Trent’s sufferings, she 
suffered. She was racked and, though she herself 
had sentenced him, the pangs twisted her out of 
her woman’s stoicisrp. This man had tricked her, 
betrayed her, broken her pride. She had been head 
and shoulders above men. Hadn’t she always ruled 
them—dealt them her favors or her punishments? 
It was for this bland-eyed young cat to steal the soft¬ 
ness out of her with lying words, to melt her heart 
and then set into it his claws—laughing. He and 
Martha—kissing and loving and promising them¬ 
selves success! Oh! she had been a fool, cheated, 
flattered, and at last made into a shape for eternal 
masculine mockery—an old maid who fancied her¬ 
self loved by a young lover and smiled and beckoned 
and grimaced. God strike at the man’s heart, cut 
it and scar it so that it never again beat to the tune 
of laughter! She lighted no lamp; the fire glow 
showed her grim stillness, crouched forward over her 
hands, nails sunk into her palms, eyes closed to 
endure her misery or opened wide to stare it down. 
They took a long time, those men, to beat the boy 
out of his consciousness. How noisy the night was 
with its whistling march of snow! 

There had been no outcry! Surely she’d have 
heard, even through the storm, his voice of rage and 
pain, perhaps a cry for mercy. She’d like to hear 
that. What mercy had he for her? There would 
never be an end to this lashing on her naked pride. 

She looked up because a cold wind, smelling of 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


191 


snow, blew across her and the fire jumped. By its 
sudden vigorous burning she saw Trent come across 
from the door slowly. He moved as though his 
limbs were half torn away from his body, and rested 
near her, his weight against the table edge on two 
bleeding hands. His clothing hung about him in 
strips, his face was torn and bruised. He said some¬ 
thing three times with his lips before his words were 
audible. 

“Where’s Martha?” 

She steadied her topaz eyes to look mercilessly 
into his dim and bloodshot ones. 

“I sent her down the valley, on foot, the way she 
came.” 

He lifted his head a little and listened, with bruised 
lips apart, to the storm. 

“On foot—in this?” 

“Yes. She started after the last guests had gone. 
She can foot it now as far as Van Breuwen’s before 
she drops. He’ll take her in.” 

Again his bruised lips painfully shaped themselves 
to words. 

“She told Van Breuwen she wouldn’t marry him— 
i you knew that?” 

“Yes. There are a few things I did know.” 

“But you didn’t know what he said to her.” 

! Trent drew a long breath and mustered strength 
! for longer speech. “ He said: 'You’ve lost your 
chance of being made respectable. I’ll make you 
what your mother was.’ ” 

Delila half rose. “He wouldn’t dare say that!” 

A film passed over her eyes. John turned away. 

“I’ll get my horse,” he muttered. 

“No more horses for you from Circle R, John 
Trent. You follow your girl on foot. But before 



192 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


you go, tell me your opinion of Jeff Carey’s quirt.” 

John looked at her again. He used his smile. 

“Miss Jameison, I fought my way into the boys’ 
belief, so that they made me a present of a horse and 
saddle. If I were going to stay here as your foreman, 
I’d be a popular fellow now. They love a man’s 
fists in this valley even if they hate his brains. Ask 
Dandy that question of yours about a quirt. He 
thought I was done after I’d laid out Buster and he 
came third—two turns ahead of his original inten¬ 
tion. I cut the truth out of him with his own whip. 
He ate his lies.” 

Trent laughed shakily, drew the back of his hand 
across his eyes, smearing the lids red, and moved 
away from her, steadying himself now and again 
by wall or chair. Just before going out he said, as 
if to himself: 

“The girl has your blood. Because of that, I 
used to call her the eagle’s feather—good bye.” 

Delila flung up her head sharply, as though she 
had heard a calling in the distance. The eagle’s 
feather. 

She heard him go, went to the window and saw 
a dim mass moving away, accompanied by a long 
whirling phantom of snow which wrapped its arms 
about the horse and the body of the exhausted rider. 
Delila did not go back to her chair. She crossed to 
the inner door and stood gripping its knob. Fifteen 
minutes brought her to her decision. 

She buckled her six-shooter round her waist, got 
into a coat of coyote skins, went down to the stables 
and, commanding no help, harnessed her sturdiest 
team to a buggy. She left them in the barn and 
returned to the house, where she knocked on the 
parson’s door. He was presently awakened, a big, 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


193 


young, pleasant natured fellow, and received his 
orders meekly. Delila was easy to obey. ‘ ‘We’ve 
got to travel down the country, storm or no storm,” 
she told him. “It's a matter of life and death, or— 
if the words suit you better—of Heaven and Hell. 
Just your business, Mister Sin-Buster.” 

He protested once feebly when, on his way to the 
stables, the snow squall struck him almost off his 
feet, but Delila laid her hand on his arm and he 
found himself presently seated beside her in the 
buggy. The woman, a bear in her furs, backed the 
team and lashed them out and down the smothered 
road with their noses to the wind. 

There was no man in Bear Valley who could get 
from a team so nearly all the strength and cleverness 
> that was in it as could Delila. Her horses, working 
; against a stinging wall of wind and sleet, carried her 
! and the bewildered Joseph Winger with sure speed. 
If they slipped, her hand was there to pull them up; 
if they lagged, her whip was searching and clever; 
if they reared, her iron voice sawed into their docile 
| consciousness, she found herself straining her eyes 
| ahead for a bent figure on horseback, though reason 
! told her that Trent, if his will kept sense in his 
j pounded body, must by now have reached his des- 
! tination. 

Van Breuwen’s house ran near the river at the 
! base of a steep decline from the open ranges. Until 
i a rider was just above it, it was as secret as a lair. 

| Delila herself, though she knew her directions and 
distances half automatically, was startled when the 
buggy plunged down and she saw a snow-veiled 
light. The cabin by its situation was sheltered from 
the storm and as they descended the air grew softer 
and stiller, the voice dropped from their frosted 




194 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


ears. Here the snow fell straight and soundlessly 
through leafless aspens and the gray tangle of cotton¬ 
wood. It had not drifted. 

The team took itself into an empty corral amongst 
the trees, and Delila with the aid of an electric torch, 
closed the gate on them and, hushing her companion, 
walked softly through the damp carpet of fresh 
snow towards Van Breuwen’s visible window. It 
was uncurtained, and beckoning Winger to stand 
back and be silent, Delila crept up close to it and 
looked in. 

The room, after her long blind driving, seemed 
ablaze with light; a stove glowed with red iron sides 
in one corner and a big glass lamp, unshaded, stared 
at her from a central table. Van Breuwen was stand¬ 
ing near it in his shirt—its sleeves rolled up to the 
elbows showing his red hairy arms, its collar open 
across the red and hairy chest. He was moving his 
head to and fro and talking in a slightly accented 
voice that rumbled out, thunderous and reproachful. 
Martha was crouched up in a big elk-hide chair, her 
hands tightened into fists, her hair hanging in half 
dry wisps all about her neck and shoulders. Her 
face was shrunk into a mere symbol of resistance, 
its eyes narrow, its mouth set; no color, no flesh, 
nothing but the bones of her young will stiffened 
to a fight to the death. She was as fierce as a cor¬ 
nered wildcat but wasting not a breath in spoken 
defiance or in outcry. Delila’s eagle blood must have 
thrilled at the sight of her. . . 

At first the woman’s eyes missed Trent altogether; 
then, starting, she distinguished him from the corner 
post of a great set of shelves to which he had been 
roped. He was conscious and every nerve and 
muscle was strained so evenly, so tensely, that he 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


195 


seemed statue-still. Tears were running down his 
battered face and every place the rope touched 
showed frayed and stained. His lips moved con¬ 
tinually. Delila could not hear his voice above the 
noisy Dutchman’s. 

‘T vas goin’ to keeb her here undil she vould decide 
to marry me. She coom to me, eh vhat? of her own 
vill. I didn’t fetch her. She coom flutterin’ again’ 
my door like a white moth, half dead with dat cold, 
dat snow. Didn’t I took her in and tread her fine, 
like a vather—vhat?—dry her and warm her and 
gif her a drink? Was I hurdin’ her? No. You— 
vool! to coom and meddle with me. She’d haf 
stopped here safe wid me undil she had made up 
her mindt for herself to marry me. Pefore the snow 
haf gone she’d haf been ready—oh yiss, sure! Now 
vhat you done? You haf mate me mad. Now I 
vill punish you. You stand dere and cry and fight 
I vhile I teach dat girl not to say—no. She say—no 
to me vonce too often. Sh$ now goin’ to learn how 
to say yes—to one big strong man. Before the day 
I coom she’ll be prayin’ for me to vetch parson—eh 
j vhat?—prayin’.” 

Delila stepped aside, beckoned to her companion 
I and, loosening her pistol, walked quickly to Van 
j Breuwen’s door and flung it suddenly wide. 
i "Some prayers get answered, Pier, before they’re 
prayed. Here’s Martha’s parson now.” 

Van Breuwen staggered round on his heel. Martha 
| screamed faintly. Trent paused in his soft, deliri¬ 
ous cursing. The room became Delila’s audience 
chamber. Big in her furs, and bigger in the fiery 
! vengeful intentness of her will, she dwarfed even 
Van Breuwen. They seemed boys and girls, chil¬ 
dren, startled at some wicked play. 




196 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


She spoke to the pastor over her shoulder in a 
voice like a saw singing through soft wood. 

“Step across there, Winger, will you, and untie— 
the witness.” 

Winger obeyed, using his knife. His face was 
stern, pale and bewildered, but he was Delila’s 
henchman. Trent fell forward from the post and 
the clergyman supported him to a chair where he 
drooped, half fainting, fighting against complete 
unconsciousness. Martha rose to go over to him 
when Delila spoke again and halted her. 

“You got the marriage service by heart, Joseph: 
Winger?” 

“Yes, Ma’am. I think so.” 

“Then pull out that table there and stand beside 
it. Marty, step up in front of him. Do like I tell 
you—don’t you see my gun?” 

Martha moved over, white and light. 

“Now we got our witness”—she glanced at Trent— 
“and we got our bridegroom. Hold on, Van Breuwen, 
I got you covered. Just you wait for orders, savvy? 
John Trent, you were held for witness, weren’t you? 
Have you got the strength to step up there near 
Winger?” 

He pulled himself together and wavered to the 
parson’s right. He looked at Delila with his dazed, 
half comprehending eyes. 

“Now, Van Breuwen, you come along with me. 
Read out the service, parson.” 

The clergyman stammered. “W-which — who—! 
who am I marrying, Miss Jameison?” he asked, 
flushing and dubious. 

“You are marrying my niece, Martha Jameison, 
to the man she’s chosen.” 




THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


197 


Martha slipped forward, was caught up by Trent 
and stood there, swaying,while the parson spoke. 

Except for the rather melodramatic circumstance 
that Delila kept Van Breuwen covered with her gun, 
the service went with conventional smoothness to 
its close. The bridegroom’s responses were whispered 
and the bride’s tremulous, but there was no hesita¬ 
tion or doubt in the faint, determined voices. Delila, 
eyes and pistol on the Dutchman, stepped forward 
sideways and gave her niece away. The pastor raised 
his hand: “In the name of the Father, of the Son 
and of the Holy Ghost—I pronounce you man and 
wife. What God hath joined together let-no man 
put asunder—” 

“Amen,” said Delila and bent down her head. 

] “Now, Winger,” she said brusquely after the pause 
during which they all heard the tapping of snow 
and the snapping of the red hot stove, and looked at 
leach other with strange eyes. “You take this six- 
j shooter of mine and march Van Breuwen into the 
Istore room—give him some blankets—and lock him 
in. Afterwards I’ll drive you back to Circle R. I 
['figure we can just about make it before we’re drifted 
; in. It’s near daylight now so we can make time.” 

After Van Breuwen’s enforced departure—he 
j seemed crestfallen and resigned—Delila spoke more 
; softly. 

1 “John Trent, you take your wife into her bedroom, 
j There’s near about nothing left of her.” 

He led the girl to a door, watched her creep 
through, closed it gently and looked across the room 
towards Delila. 

She had sat down in the big elk-hide throne near 
the table end. She looked pale and old and tranquil. 




198 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


“John,” she said, “I never did believe that lie ol 
Dandy’s.” 

He was silent, leaning against the door. 

“John, I’ve got a wedding present for you—Van 
Breuwen’s ranch. You’re coming into Circle R as 
my partner. As soon as the snow’s melted enough 
for holding a business meeting, we’ll fix up the ar¬ 
rangements. Meanwhile I’ll leave Van Breuwen 
here—you can have my gun, though I don’t think 
he’ll bother you any—until you can send him down 
country with his team and his belongings. The 
personal stuff, you know, is rightly his. He’s a mean 
actor but I’m sort of sorry for him.” She sighed. 
“You’ll have a good home down here, you and 
Martha, after she’s had a chance to tidy it up.” 

She began to stroke her silk skirt with one dark 
and restless hand. 

“Likely,” she said in a low voice, very patient, 
“I’ll learn to love your children, John . . . 

eagle’s feathers . . . ” Moisture filled the long 

wrinkles in the corners of her lids. 

He came over to her and, after standing before 
her a moment, he bent his knee, took up one of the 
restless hands and bowing over it, touched it lightly 
with his lips. Then he rose and walked backward, 
gracefully, gravely, forgetful of himself as he had 
been once in the presence of an august Personage. 
Just before he went in to Martha he straightened 
to look up at her again. 

She sat erect, the right hand across the left, which 
he had kissed; her eyes, haughty and wistful, were 
looking far and away beyond him as though the} 
could see across the mountain barriers to some con¬ 
quest vaster than any of which in her narrow valle> 
she had dreamed. 


The Eagle’s Feather 

A Six-Reel Western Drama 

(Adapted by Winifred Dunn from the short-story 
by Katharine Newlin Burt 
Produced by Metro Pictures Corporation 


THE CAST 

Delila Jameison. 

John Trent. 

Jeff Carey. 

Martha. 

Parson Winger. 

Van Breuwen. 


.. . .Mary Alden 
James Kirkwood 
.. . .Lester Cuneo 

. Elinor Fair 

. John Elliott 

. .George Seigman 


! 










SYNOPSIS 


I A long train of box cars rattled and creaked its 
way through a sleepy little western siding. Perched 
on top of the automatic couplers between two cars, 
a dusty and tattered individual sat humped, with 
knees and elbows braced. As the train slowed down 
for the siding the brakeman, passing along the foot¬ 
board on top of the cars, spied the tramp. True to 
his creed, he started to clamber down to kick off 
this impudent knight of the road. 

The tramp, alert for just such an event, gathered 
himself for a dangerous spring and, with the train 
still in motion, hurled himself to the grade, staggered, 
regained his balance, and with a half defiant backward 
Hook limped painfully down the track towards the 
rough plank platform. 

John Trent was a product of the late World War. 
Jobless, and broke, he had been drifting gradually 
westward, trying to forget the hell he had been 
‘through, spurred on by a restless urge that he could 
hardly understand. He was tall and square shoul¬ 
dered, with the jaw and mouth of a fighter and the 
eyes of a dreamer. The tattered, dusty clothing 
ind the battered felt hat could not hide the real man 
underneath. Even as he limped along there was a 
kind of fatalistic good humor, in his expressive face. 

Little knots of loungers were hanging around the 
‘deepo” waiting for the motor stage to start. Trent 
approached one of the natives and asked where he 
could secure work. The fellow’s eyes roved over 


201 




202 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


Trent’s tattered figure, lingering for a second on th 
lame leg. There was the slightest flicker of hui 
in Trent’s expressive eyes as he endured the scrutin) 

‘‘You might get a job with Van Breuwen. He’ 
not too particular,” was the uncomplimentary com 
ment. 

It was a case of any port in a storm with Trenl 
He eagerly asked where Van Breuwen could b 
located. 

The other nodded towards the motor stage, no\ 
filling up with passengers. “The stage will take yoi 
past his place. He’s the second biggest man in th 
valley.” 

Trent anxiously investigating his pockets found ; 
dollar bill. Thanking his informant he limped to th 
stage, paid his fare and climbed into the rickety con 
veyance. He was followed by a young girl with he 
arms full of parcels. Trent took the end seat an( 
made room for the girl next to him, scarcely glanc 
ing at her in his preoccupation. A fat little mai 
followed the girl and, mopping his perspiring face 
joked with her about buying up the town, in allusioi 
to her numerous purchases. 

A huge hulk of a man with a gross, sensual fac 
and little, simian eyes roughly thrust his way into th 
stage. He nudged the fat little man and indicatet 
an opposite seat. The fat man ignored the hint. Th 
newcomer seized him, threw him bodily into th 
vacant seat and took his place beside the girl. I. 

The driver climbed to his seat, started the engine 
and the stage rattled its way out into the dusty trail 

The girl, Martha, niece of Delila Jameison wh 
owned the Circle R Ranch, edged a little closer t 
Trent as the bully leaned over her and with a greas; 
smirk started to talk. Trent automatically move* 





THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


203 


up a little to give the girl more room. Crossing his 
legs, the big fellow moved still nearer and at the same 
time slid a pudgy arm across the back of the seat, 
almost embracing the girl. Martha’s face was 
troubled. A glance across the car revealed a row 
of old cronies who looked as if a quarrel with the 
bully was the last thing in the world they would 
welcome. 

Again the big fellow crowded Martha and again 
she recoiled from him. Trent was now uncomfort¬ 
ably crushed against the end of the seat, but again 
he attempted to give the girl a little more room. He 
shot a swift glance at her face, and for the first time 
was aware of the true state of affairs. She was afraid 
of the other fellow who was meanly taking advantage 
of her inability to escape his advances. A quick 
light flashed in the grey eyes and Trent arose stiffly 
I to his feet in the rocking stage. With a courteous 
i gesture he offered the girl his own seat and before 
i the big fellow could recover from his surprise, 
dropped into the seat she vacated. 

With rigid elbows and a sturdy shoulder he held 
the big fellow in place without giving him any apparent 
thought. The other passengers carefully guarded 
their glee. Boiling with rage at this interference, the 
bully glared at Trent who stared passively and inno¬ 
cently ahead. The quiet smile and fighting jaw, 
however, checked further demonstration. 

A little further along the road, at the entrance to 
the Circle R, the girl with a smile of thanks to Trent 
arose to leave the stage. The bully seized her by the 
arm. ‘Til get you and your aunt too, damn her!” 
he threatened. 

Trent caught the man’s wrist with a grip that 



204 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


made him release his hold of the girl, and jerked 
him out of her way. 

“Better be careful, Van Breuwen. Delila Jameison 
is the biggest man in Bear Valley,” the little fellow 
told him. 

At the name of Van Breuwen, Trent placed a hand 
on the bully’s arm. 

“You Van Breuwen?’’ he asked. 

The other nodded in surly acquiesence. Trent 
reached over, tapped the driver on the shoulder as 
a signal to stop, and stood up. He turned to Van 
Breuwen. 

“I was figuring on your being my boss—but-” 

The scorn in Trent’s manner made it unnecessary to 
complete the sentence. He climbed down and stood 
uncertainly in the dust while the stage whirled on¬ 
ward. 

Back on the trail lay the Circle R. Ahead lay he 
knew not what. Trent turned and started to walk 
back to the Circle R. 

Out at the big corral, Delila Jameison, a hard, 
proud woman of forty-three was superintending the 
handling of her stock. Straight as a gun barrel, 
tough as whipcord, she sat her horse with the as¬ 
surance of a seasoned horsewoman. As the wild¬ 
eyed steers raced down the gangways she directed 
operations with a swift and sure judgment. Her pale, 
cold face was quite emotionless as she curbed her 
plunging steed. The boys jumped into the work 
with a will, for was she not a crackerjack cattleman— 
the biggest man in Bear Valley! 

Her ranch was one to be proud of, and as Trent 
entered the wide swung gates with the huge lettered 
sign above, he was struck with the barrack-like 
orderliness of the place. A couple of cowboys met 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


205 


him. Pat and Olaf could never agree on anything, 
and merely because Olaf objected to ushering Trent 
into the presence of the “boss,” Pat insisted on it, 
pessimistically informing him however that he knew 
it would be a waste of time. 

Delila had returned to her grim little office and 
was checking up accounts at her flat topped desk. 
She was quite absorbed in her task when Martha 
came in bringing a vase of flowers which she placed 
quietly on her aunt’s desk. Without looking up 
Delila asked if she had had a good trip to town. She 
! nodded absently at Martha’s reply and added 
bluntly: 

“Run along now, Pm busy!” 

And Martha, like all the rest of Delila’s subjects, 
i obeyed without question. 

Trent was ushered into the little office by Pat who 
| apologetically explained to Delila that “this guy” 
insisted on seeing her, although he had told him it 
would be useless. Delila finished her figuring, and 
[ glanced up at Trent with a trace of irritation. 

Her lips curled scornfully as she glanced over the 
tattered form, “I don’t employ your kind,” she said 
I with finality. 

“But I want to work for you,” Trent insisted. 

“Why?” she demanded. 

She reached into the patch pocket of her service- 
| able blouse, extracted papers and tobacco and coolly 
rolled herself a cigaret. Trent was explaining that 
he had heard she was the biggest man in Bear Valley. 
He would be proud to work for her. 

Into her cold, calculating eyes leaped a fierce, 
exulting flame that was instantly quenched. Trent 
likened her to an eagle—an eagle woman. 



206 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


At this moment the office door opened and in 
stalked a lanky cowboy. Jeff Carey was a dandy 
in his own particular way. There were no gaudy 
theatrical trimmings to his cowboy outfit, but every¬ 
thing he wore looked neat and good, and clean. He 
looked and was efficient, and that was the reason 
for his high favor with Delila. Carey had ambitions 
for the foreman’s position, but so far Delila had not 
seen fit to appoint a foreman. She believed in keep¬ 
ing the reins of authority in her own hands. 

Like most favorites, Carey was at times a little 
presumptuous. He stared at Trent with frank dis¬ 
gust, and then turned to Delila who was watching 
him curiously. 

“You ain’t goin’ to hire the like o’ that?” he asked. 
This was a mistake on his part. Delila made her 
own decisions and her own judgments. Carey 
was inclined to protest still further, but Delila’s 
mouth hardened like a steel trap. 

“I’m still able to run my own business, Carey,” 
she told him pointedly. “Get this under your hat: 
You’re not foreman of the Circle R—yet!” As Carey 
lingered she asked him what he was waiting for. 

Carey reddened at the rebuke before the dilapi¬ 
dated stranger. Trent could not control a quiet grin 
at the way the woman had stepped on the disgruntled 
favorite. Carey shot him a glance of enmity and 
slammed his way out of the room. Trent had made 
a lasting enemy by that unfortunate grin. 

Pat was starting to hustle Trent from the room 
when Delila called them back. “My roustabout quit 
and the hogs have not been fed today,” she said 
briefly. “Show him where the garbage is.” 

“What are you paying?” inquired Trent. 

“Forty a month!” She was as hard as nails. 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


207 


Trent grinned goodnaturedly, heaved a sigh of 
relief, and nodded his acceptance of the terms. 
The door had hardly closed behind him when Delila 
Jameison had forgotten his very existence. 

With a pan of skim milk Trent entered the yard. 
Across the way, Martha was sweeping a back porch. 
Trent hailed her as she turned and recognized him. 
The pail tilted and the next minute Trent was sur¬ 
rounded by a dozen squealing hogs. 

Late that evening Trent, dog tired, limped slowly 
along the corral fence towards the bunkhouse. Revel¬ 
ling in the beauty of the moonlight he stopped for 
a moment to drink in the scene. From her bedroom 
window Martha was watching him and wondering. 

Meanwhile in the bunkhouse there was much ex¬ 
citement as the boys, spurred on by the vengeful 
Carey, “made” Trent’s bed. A scout announced 
Trent’s approach, and a yvild scramble followed. 
When Trent opened the door and walked wearily in, 
everybody had assumed an attitude of all too ob¬ 
vious innocence. Someone carelessly indicated which 
bunk Trent was to use. Trent was expecting an 
“initiation” and when his blanket moved as he ap¬ 
proached the bunk he quickly gathered up the bed 
.clothing and threw it amongst the boys —skunk and 
all. A couple of bull frogs followed, landing on the 
bald heads of Pat and Olaf. 

The boys appreciated the way in which Trent had 
turned the joke on them, and they appreciated the 
friendly grin that accompanied his decisive actions,—- 
all but Carey. The latter had been watching the 
proceedings from a distance, hoping that Trent would 
suffer discomfort. When the tired fellow started to 
climb into his bunk he sauntered over and tried to 
entangle him in an argument. Trent, however, 


208 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


wished him a cheerful goodnight, pulled his blanket 
over his head and curled down to sleep, leaving Carey 
talking to himself, and furiously angry. 


Six months of good food, pure air, and steady 
work made a great change in Trent. He lost his 
limp, his face filled out, and his muscles hardened. 
More important than anything else, he acquired a 
new outlook on life. 

While he was churning in the yard, laughing and 
joking with Martha, Delila and Carey were riding 
home together, Delila with all the dignity of a feudal 
queen, and Carey cunningly playing the part of 
respectful courtier. At a turn of the road they pulled 
their horses sharply to one side to allow Van Breuwen 
and his shabby flivver to pass. 

Van Breuwen threw in the brakes and brought 
his car to a stop. Leaning out and fixing his ven¬ 
omous little eyes on Delila he wagged his head at 
her spitefully. 

"Think you’re pretty darn smart, don’t you, 
since you’ve bought up the mortgage on my place?” 
he growled. 

With head erect, and looking every inch a queen, 
Delila rode past him without even favoring him with 
a single glance. Her contempt for the man was more 
positive than a slap in the face. Carey bent one 
sneering look on Van Breuwen and followed his 
"boss.” 

If looks could have killed, Carey and Delila would 
have been instantly annihilated by the glare of deadly 
hatred that Van Breuwen gave them as he screwed 
his head around and watched them disappear down 
the trail. Viciously he scratched a match and applied 
the flame to his stubby pipe. Still intent with his 



THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


209 


thoughts the match burned his fingers and he threw 
it from him with a snarling oath. With the instinct 
of a cattleman he followed its flight, and as a bright 
\ flame shot up from the dried grass he automatically 
| started to descend and extinguish it. But he checked 
himself as a sudden thought came to him. With a 
wicked grin he watched the spreading flame, and 
throwing in the clutch wabbled on down the trail, 
leaving a threatening disaster behind him. 

Delila and Carey rode up to the ranch house steps 
and dismounted. Delila spoke crisply for a few 
moments, giving Carey some final instructions be¬ 
fore dismissing him. 

Churning is a pleasant occupation with a pretty 
j girl to help hold the dasher, as Trent was discovering. 

I As he lifted the churn to carry it into the milk house, 
he caught sight of a column of smoke rising just over 
I the hill. With a quick dash he seized a shovel and 
raced towards the porch steps where Delila and 
Carey were still talking. He burst on the two like 
a whirlwind, and pointing to the smoke he snatched ' 
Carey’s horse from his hand, leaped into the saddle, 
and was off at a gallop before the astonished couple 
could realize what it was all about. The next instant 
Delila was in the saddle of her own horse, leaving 
Carey cursing to himself. 

While Trent dashed directly to the scene of the 
fire in a wild and dangerous ride, Delila raced to 
the corral and called on the “boys” to mount and 
follow her. Without waiting for them she spurred 
after Trent. 

When she reached the fire she found Trent alter¬ 
nately beating out the sparks with his shovel and 
smothering the flames with the coat he had torn from 
his back. Fearlessly and efficiently she jumped in 






210 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


beside him. In a masterful way she snatched the 
shovel from his hand and started to use it. Trent 
dashed the sweat and grime from his eyes, coolly 
snatched it back, and resumed his desperate efforts. 

Delila cast a shrewd look at Trent. There was 
something of admiration in the look, something of 
a correct estimation of his true worth. Quite obliv¬ 
ious of the impression he had made Trent toiled 
on, doing the work of three men. 

Carey, boiling with rage at the way Trent had 
commandeered his horse, had hastened to the corral 
and had snatched a horse from Olaf, roughly bowling 
over the astonished cowboy. By the time the rest 
of the cowboys arrived, the fire was extinguished. 

Carey shouldered his way to the front and glared 
angrily at Trent, who now looked worse than he did 
the day he dropped off the freight. “I don’t allow 
bums to ride my horse,” said Carey insolently. 

Delila, watching the two men, made a peremptory 
gesture of command to the cowboy. ‘'We’ll need a 
new roustabout, Carey. From now on Trent will 
make one of the regular hands.” 

Carey sulked, consumed with jealousy at the sud¬ 
den rise to favor of the man he hated. He lingered 
behind, as the boys, accompanied by Delila, started 
back to the ranch house. Trent, his back to Carey, 
was dusting his coat and grinning whimsically at 
the damage done to it. 

Carey glanced quickly around, and touched the 
spurs to his horse. As the animal leaped forward 
toward the unsuspecting man on the ground Carey 
jerked suddenly on the bit and buried his spurs 
deep. The horse reared, and brought his fore feet 
crashing down. Trent fell in a smother of dust, and 
lay still. 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


211 


Delila, missing Carey and Trent, looked back 
from the brow of the hill in time to see the apparent 
accident. Wheeling she galloped back. 

Dismounting, she bored Carey with a look that 
shriveled his soul. Carey muttered something about 
a man not having enough sense to keep from under 
a horse’s hoofs, but he knew that Delila guessed the 
truth. 

‘Tm not a fool, Carey!” she told him, as she slid 
her arm in businesslike fashion under Trent’s head. 

Trent was carried back to the ranchhouse, and 
placed by Delila’s orders on a couch in her own 
sitting room. When alone with him she bathed his 
head with wonderful tenderness and the sudden 
realization came to her that she was a woman after 
all and that she was actually falling in love with her 
ex-roustabout. 

The arrival of Martha, however, brought Delila 
I back to her old stern self. She left the girl with 
[Trent while she busied herself with practical matters. 

When Trent opened his eyes he found Martha 
I beside him. Slowly he drew her head down, and their 
lips met. 

Fired by his great love, Trent made up his mind 
at that moment to prove his worth by making him¬ 
self a first class cattleman and winning the confidence 
and esteem of his employer. 

By the time of the fall roundup Trent had estab¬ 
lished himself firmly in the good graces of Delila 
Jameison. A glutton for work, a first class horseman, 
and a man with an incentive for the highest possible 
form of service, Trent was now Delila’s most trusted 
employee. By sheer ability he had earned the privi¬ 
lege of taking charge of the drive of the cattle to the 





212 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


rail head. Short handed through an epidemic of 
influenza, each man had to do the work of two. 

The great herd was started on its way. No rest 
could be taken by anyone until the cattle were safely 
run through the chutes into the cattle cars and 
shipped east to the big stockyards. Trent, keyed to 
the highest pitch of endeavor, was hollow-eyed for 
lack of sleep, but he exulted in the conflict. Wasn’t 
he earning the right to ask for the hand of Martha? 

Van Breuwen, whose hatred for all the Circle R 
crowd had increased when he discovered that Delila 
was going to press for a foreclosure of the mortgage 
on his place, was following the great herd, hoping 
for an opportunity to do some lasting damage. 
Sneaking along, out of sight on the flank of the herd, 
he watched and waited. 

Delila was with the outfit, sharing the duties and 
dangers with the men, and attracted more and more 
to the man who was serving her so well. 

That night, more tired than he had ever been in 
his life, Trent curled into his blankets and was 
instantly fast asleep. Delila dragged her blankets 
near him, and wrapping herself warmly, lay watching 
his tired form in the moonlight. Her whole heart 
went out to him. 

Sleep came to her at last, and in her dreams Trent 
came to her and haltingly declared his love. 

“I did not dare to speak to you before,” he seemed 
to say. “You were so far above me.” 

With morning, however, she realized that it was 
a dream and proud eagle woman that she was, she 
stifled her passion, and plunged once more into the 
activities of the day. 1 

At last Van Breuwen’s opportunity came. The 
cattle were badly bunched and nervous. The ex- 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


213 


plosion of Van Breuwen’s improvised bomb sent the 
whole herd into a wild stampede. Instantly every 
man was fighting to control the dangerous flight. 
Riders performed thrilling feats of daring and 
endurance, risking life every minute in what each 
one considered his “job.” 

Delila, as ever, was in the thick of it, grim and dy¬ 
namic. Riding at breakneck speed to turn a bunch 
that threatened to break from the herd, she dashed 
j right across the face of the charging mass. Suddenly 
I her horse tripped in a badger hole and she was thrown 
I. heavily. Trent, riding near, saw the accident and 
raced forward in the face of what looked like certain 
| death. 

Delila had not fainted; she was not of the fainting 
kind. She knew better than anyone what Trent 
was doing for her sake, and when he swept her into 
his arms and thundered on to safety, she felt a 
thrill that she had long believed was impossible. 

Trent coolly deposited her in safety and returned 
to his job, without giving another thought to the 
woman into whose life had come a wonderful new 
influence. 

At last the stampede was under control, and with 
a negligible loss. 

The cattle were marketed at last, and the Circle 
R was all excitement over the grand dinner to which 
all the country side was to be invited. In the big 
hall of the ranch house great tables were placed 
end to end and servants hurried in all directions 
preparing for the reception and feast. The boys, 
now that work was suspended, were “dolling” them¬ 
selves, each according to his individual taste. 

One hurried over to the barns, and from between 
two bales of hay dragged forth a pair of pants, in- 



214 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


differently pressed by the novel process. Pat and 
Olaf haggled over the use of their joint shaving 
brush and razor. One dandy was terribly distressed 
because he was out of pomade for his hair and mous¬ 
tache. Spying a box of gall cure, however, he opened 
it and improvised a pomade of his own. The gall 
cure, laid for a second on a box, at which another 
cowboy was polishing his shoes, became shuffled 
with a tin of shoe blacking. Disastrous results 
followed when the dandy, admiring himself in the 
cracked mirror, reached blindly for a little more 
“pomade.” 

The guests were now arriving. Every variety of 
bald head and calico skirt was present. Delila re¬ 
ceived them with all the regal pride of which she 
was capable. The Chinese cook was shining and 
beaming with self importance in his well appointed 
kitchen. 

Carey came bustling in and asked for an interview 
with Delila. Taking him to her little office she asked 
him what he wanted. With well simulated earnest¬ 
ness he told her that he had found a roll of money 
under Trent’s bunk. Stepping quickly to the safe, 
Delila threw it open. The payroll was gone. Turn¬ 
ing she faced Carey with grim suspicion. Carey 
asked her if Trent knew the combination of the safe. 
She quietly admitted that he did, but hinted that it 
was quite possible that someone had been smart 
enough to steal the money and frame Trent when 
she had called him out of the room on business. 

“Wait ’til the guests have gone and I’ll give you 
a chance to face Trent with that charge,” she told 
him. 

Trent burst in on Martha with the news that he 
had just been over to Van Breuwen’s and had fore- 




THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


215 


:losed the mortgage. With a quick hug and a kiss 
le hurried in to make his report to Delila. 

He found Carey talking to her. With a look of 
/indictive hate at Trent, Carey left the room abrupt- 
y. Trent informed Delila that Van Breuwen had 
nade quite a fuss, but that the papers had been 
served and everything was in legal order. 

Delila handed the papers back to Trent and asked 
lim to put them in the safe. She quietly watched 
iiim as he obeyed the request. There was not the 
slightest hint of guilt in his manner or actions. 

| * Dinner was now announced. At the head of the 
:able, Delila superintended the placing of the guests. 
Carey stood beside the vacant chair at the foot of 
;he table, confident that this place of honor would be 

I issigned to him. At Delila’s command Trent took 
■his seat. Carey sullenly made his way to a chair 
it the side. Martha looked on, beaming with love 
ind pride. 

When the dinner was well advanced and after the 
>oys had indulged in a little innocent fun, Delila 
irose and rapped for order. She announced that the 
Ifele R had spread its wings and now included the 
^azy O. A wild cheer greeted the news. 

She went on to say that as a reward for faithful 
iervice she was going to appoint a foreman. It gave 
ler great pleasure to name a man who had done 
nore for her than any other man who had ever 
Irawn her pay. 

i Among the men at the table there were nudges and 
yhisperings. Some perked up confidently, others 
;mirked and preened. Carey with his eyes fixed on 
Delila, was plainly at a tremendous nervous tension. 
| “That man is—JOHN TRENT!” Her voice, 
isually so firm and strong, was the least bit uncertain, 




216 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


and her eyes shone with a love she could not alto 
gether disguise. 

Another great cheer rent the air. With the excep 
tion of Carey, all the men were genuinely glad. Th< 
boys crowded round him generously shaking hand: 
with him and slapping his back. Carey alone sa‘ 
in sulky silence. Martha, her eyes beaming witl 
pride, looked from Trent to Delila—and read th( 
truth. A chill of dismay seized her for she knew tha' 
Trent’s victory meant her own loss. She knew thai 
fate had taken a terrible hand in their affairs. John 
on the other hand, seemed quite unaware of the tru< 
cause for his promotion. 

After the guests had gone Trent naturally soughi 
Martha, who had seemed, for some unaccountable 
reason, to avoid him. He found her outside in c 
sheltered porch. Although it was now quite cole 
and snow was beginning to fall, she stood looking 
out into the storm with unseeing eyes. Trent gentl} 
put his arm around her. The tragic face she turnec 
to him astounded him. 

Anxiously he questioned her. Did she not realizt 
that now he was in a position to ask her aunt t( 
consent to their marriage? He was no longer ; 
homeless tramp, but a man who had won the righ 
to a home and love. Brokenly, she tried to explain 
to make him see. Delila Jameison might have beei 
grateful for his wholehearted service, but the trui 
reason for his promotion was the cruel fact that thi 
eagle woman had fallen in love with him. 

Trent was speechless with astonishment. Thei 
he recovered his poise. This thing, deplorable a 
it was, must not stand in the way of their love. H< 
would see Delila and explain to her. She was a goo( 
sportsman and would do the right thing. 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


217 


j Martha shook her head miserably. He did not 
understand. Delila would not see anything but her 
wounded pride. She would feel terribly hurt to 
think that all Trent had done was not for her own 
sake but for the sake of winning her niece. She 
would never forgive him. 

At last, persuaded by Martha, he compromised 
py promising to break the news to Delila as gently 
as possible and to emphasize the fact that he was 
proud to serve her and felt honored by her confidence. 

j Delila was not surprised when Trent asked for an 
nterview with her. Seated in solitary state in the 
big hall she received him with marked kindness and 
asked him to be seated. Trent, big boy as he was, 
elt terribly embarrassed with his delicate mission. 
His embarrassment, however, was entirely mistaken 
py the proud woman. At his first halting words, 
to the effect that love had come into his life, she 
:ried to help him, believing that she was the loved 
jme. 

! He must not feel that he is aiming too high, or 
hat she is unapproachable, she told him, and she 
vas very glad that at last he had spoken. He had 
nade her very, very happy. With bursting heart 
he broke away from him to seek Martha, the only 
|voman with whom she could share her secret. 

i Gasping with the realization of the construction 
he had placed on his awkward preamble, Trent 
;tood motionless and stunned. 

Delila found Martha on the porch. Almost sob- 
)ing, she begged the girl to tell her that it was true, 
dartha, thinking that Trent had explained, nodded 
lappily—confirming Delila’s wild hopes. But a 
noment later, when Delila spoke of Trent’s being 





218 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


five years younger than she, Martha grew cold with 
horror. 

Trent came striding from the house, roused at 
last to the gravity of the situation. Standing between 
them, he blurted out the truth.—It was Martha he 
loved—Martha! This is what he had been trying 
to say in the house. 

Delila recoiled as if struck. Her face went deathly 
white. Her faculties seemed for the moment para¬ 
lyzed. Martha, terrified, tried to persuade Trent that 
it was Delila he should marry. 

Delila drew herself erect with a little shiver, 
turned coldly away from Trent’s outstretched hand 
of friendship, and stalked to the house. 

Trent took Martha into his arms. Both knew 
that somehow things had gone all awry. Trent 
insisted that he would no longer allow anything 
or anyone to stand in the way of his love. 

A Chinese servant appeared in the doorway and 
called out that Martha was wanted by “Missie Jamei- 
son.” Martha disappeared into the house, leaving 
Trent to his tumultous thoughts and to watch the 
now blinding snowstorm. 

After what seemed to be an age the servant again 
came to the door and called to Trent. When he 
reached the big hall he was surprised to find all the 
boys gathered around Delila who was now more 
than ever a feudal queen. Her face was a mask of 
white, and her eyes burned with a dangerous fire. 
Carey, with an ugly sneer on his face, stood near. 

“Show this fellow what you found under his bunk, 
Carey,” she commanded. 

Carey held forward the huge wad of bills intended 
to pay the men. Trent was sorry for the woman. 
She had bared her soul to him and he had spurned 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


219 


her. There was no bitterness in his heart, only a 
very great sympathy. He did not speak a single 
word in futile defense. 

Then Delila laughed cruelly. Not only was he 
stealing the men’s money, she said, but he had 
planned to steal her niece. A nice grateful fellow 
this. Her passion drove away all reason and sense 
of justice. 

“Drag him to the bunkhouse, men. You’ll know 
what to do with him!” she cried. 

Trent did not resist. He knew it would be folly. 
The men surrounded him and started to march him 
to the door. They were halted by the voice of Delila. 

“Here, Carey. Take this.” From a drawer she 
took a quirt which she handed to the grinning Carey. 
The crowd surged through the doorway and crossed 
through the blizzard to the bunkhouse. 

Inside the door, Carey peeled off his coat, rolled 
up his sleeves, and began caressing the quirt sug¬ 
gestively. Trent broke from his captors and placed 
his back against a bunk. 

“Just a minute fellows!” he said quietly. “You 
should know me pretty well by this time. I’ve always 
played the game, no need to tell you that I never 
took that money. But if you believe I did, all I ask 
is a sporting chance. I’ll fight any four of you one 
at a time, and call it quits. What do you say?” 

The boys were lovers of fair play and although 
they were angry and bitter at what they thought 
Trent had done, they were willing enough to give 
him a sporting chance. With Parson Winger in 
charge a space was quickly cleared for the fight. 
One huge fellow peeled to the skin for the first round. 
Trent shed his coat and shirt, and like an animal at 
bay prepared to fight for his life. 



220 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


The fight that followed was primitive and brutal. 
One after the other with hardly a breathing space 
between rounds, Trent disposed of his first three 
opponents. Winded and bleeding, he staggered to 
a chair some good sport thrust forward and sank 
down for a moment’s rest. Who was to be the fourth? 

In the meantime the eagle woman paced the floor, 
tortured by her imagination, with visions of what was 
taking place in the bunk house. With a fierce gesture 
of her clenched fist across her eyes she swept away 
these visions and strove to remember her wounded 
pride and scorned love. Her lips smiled again 
cruelly. 

Outside the bunk house window the Chinese cook 
stood peering in with fear distended eyes. And as 
he stared, the mad figures of the fighters seemed to 
fade; indelibly stamped upon his brain was another 
picture—this same bunk house earlier in the day. 
He had come on some errand or other, had opened 
the door to find Carey bending over Trent’s bunk, 
guiltily hiding something beneath the mattress. 
Carey had kicked him out. 

In the cabin Carey took in every detail of the 
groggy fighter in the chair. Trent was almost spent. 
It would be an easy victory for a man who was fresh. 
With narrowed eyes, he tore off his shirt and called 
to Trent to step up. 

The two men met in the center of the room with 
a crash. Trent, whose strength was almost gone, 
strove feebly to ward off the blows of his new opponent. 
Carey shot over a wicked right to the jaw and al¬ 
though Trent partially broke its force with his guard, 
he staggered and fell. Instantly Carey snatched 
the quirt and in spite of the protests of the boys 
brought it down with all his force. The next instant 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


221 


Trent had regained his feet and with the last of his 
expiring strength rushed Carey into a corner. With 
this final effort, he staggered blindly back, unable to 
pursue his advantage. Carey, about to leap upon 
his already defeated enemy, was halted by the burst¬ 
ing in of the bunk house door. 

The Chinese cook, trembling with fright, hurried 
to where Trent was swaying drunkenly on his feet. 
Catching hold of Trent’s sleeve, the Chinaman 
stammered out his story: “Somebody steal. I 
think I know. I see.” 

Carey, listening to this halting confession, knew 
that the game was up. Furtively he opened the door 
and sneaked out. The men in the cabin, compre¬ 
hending at last, bolted in pursuit. Carey floundered 
desperately through the snow to the hitching rack, 
reached a horse, and threw himself into the saddle 
a moment too late. A score of hands dragged him 
savagely to the ground. 

Battered and bloody Trent made his way back to 
the ranch house and marched in to where Delila 
was nervously pacing the floor, her face twisted by 
the conflicting emotions of pride and unrequited 
love. With a pride that matched her own he de¬ 
manded where Martha was. 

Her quick surge of joy at seeing him alive and safe 
was immediately smothered at the mention of 
Martha. She drew herself up haughtily. 

“I’ve sent her down the valley afoot—like she 
came.” she announced bitterly/ “How do you like 
the taste of Carey’s quirt?” 

Trent smiled grimly. “Ask Carey that—if you 
can find him,” he retorted. 

Without wasting further words he dashed from the 
house and to the stables. A moment later he was 


222 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


pushing his horse at breakneck speed through the 
ever growing drifts of snow. 

Martha, exhausted by her terrific struggle against 
the storm, was fast approaching the point where she 
could go no further. A tiny light shining from a 
distant cabin attracted her attention. Summoning 
her remaining strength she staggered onward to 
the promised haven. She was too far gone to realize 
that the cabin belonged to Van Breuwen. Could she 
have known that this sensual beast was drinking 
himself into a dangerous state of mind she would 
have perished in the storm rather than seek his 
hospitality. 

As she collapsed against the door it opened in¬ 
ward and she fell inside. The drunken brute wad¬ 
dled to her side. Gloatingly he picked up her un¬ 
conscious form and carried her to a chair. As the 
warmth of the cabin restored her consciousness the 
grim peril of her situation came to the girl. Fear- 
stricken at the bloated evil face that was peering 
into her own she made an attempt to rise but her 
strength was gone. 

Trent rode up to the cabin in time to see Van 
Breuwen with Martha in his arms. Dismounting, 
he left the horse standing in the shelter of the cabin, 
and burst into the room. Barely able to keep his 
feet he faced the raging brute who turned his atten¬ 
tion to the newcomer. The result was inevitable. 
Fighting gamely with what strength remained to 
him, Trent caught a terrible swing from Van Breuwen 
and went down with a crash. 

When he recovered consciousness he found him¬ 
self lashed firmly to an upright timber in the cabin, 
quite helpless to save the girl from the fate that 
threatened her. Van Breuwen chuckled in unholy 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


223 


glee at the efforts of the tortured man to free him- 
[ self, while Martha, numbed in brain and body could 
do nothing. Brutally, Van Breuwen told Trent that 
he would be able to enjoy the little comedy that was 
[ going to take place. 

Back at the ranch house of Circle R, Delila still 
paced the floor, her soul in a tumult of emotions that 
matched the fury of the storm outside. Suddenly 
i she strode to the door and called Parson Winger. 

Curtly she ordered him to hitch up the fastest team 
| to the buggy. While the man jumped to obey her 
[ orders she struggled into her wraps and heavy coat. 
In an incredibly short time she was seated beside 
Winger and driving like fury down the valley. 

As they passed the Van Breuwen cabin she spied 
I Trent’s horse sheltering beside the door. The next 
moment they had rushed into the cabin and had taken 
in the situation. Van Breuwen blinked stupidly at 
this sudden visitation. Delila, dominating, forceful, 
I calmly took charge of affairs. 

In his drunken maudlin condition Van Breuwen 
was uncertain just what Delila intended to do. 

“So you want to marry my niece, do you?” she 
asked him. 

The hulking brute smirked and ogled. Trent, 
whose bonds had been cut by Winger, gathered 
Martha to his arms and stood at bay. 

“Can you remember the words of the marriage 
ceremony?” Delila asked Winger. 

The cowboy parson nodded emphatically, but 
t asked in a puzzled manner: “Just which ones am I 
to marry?” 

“Marry my niece to the man she loves,” said De- 
[ lila quietly. 

And the two lovers, who had been standing tense 






224 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


and horrified, knew that the womanliness in the eagle 
woman had conquered, and that all bitterness had 
died within her. 

“Better lock Van Breuwen in the woodshed,” 
added Delila to Winger. Van Breuwen flared up 
in an attempted resistance. Winger thrust forward 
the hand in his pocket and a rigid six inch outline 
covered the drunken brute. As Winger advanced 
threateningly, Van Breuwen backed towards the door 
and sulkily passed out. Winger with a quiet grin 
withdrew from his pocket the weapon that had been 
so effective —his straight stemmed pipe —thrust it 
between his teeth and followed Van Breuwen. 

Martha embraced her aunt with tears of forgive¬ 
ness and gratitude. She knew what the sacrifice 
had meant. Seated on one of Van Breuwen’s hard, 
straight backed chairs, the proud woman kissed her 
niece and smiled wistfully. Trent came forward, 
dropped to his knees as if in a royal presence, and 
lifted Delila’s hand gently to his lips. 

“Let us forget all about it, children,” said Delila 
a bit tremulously. “I’m only a silly old woman I 
guess.—I want you to come back as my partner, 
Trent.” 

With misty eyes the happy couple drew closer 
to each other, while the eagle woman, looking be¬ 
yond them, saw the end of her own romance and a 
new adjustment of her life. Her face, sad and now 
a trifle lonesome, was beautiful in the reflection of 
a noble spirit that had learned to sacrifice pride and 
self interest that others might be happy. 


ANALYSIS OF THE ADAPTATION OF 
“THE EAGLE’S FEATHER” 


In adapting “The Eagle’s Feather” to the screen, 
Miss Dunn retained the spirit of the original story 
and followed it very closely in atmosphere, character¬ 
izations, and climax. At the same time she was 
obliged to create new incidents and situations better 
suited to photodramatic requirements, to rearrange 
the material, and to translate or objectify action 
that was generalized in nature or merely suggested 
in the short-story. 

A careful comparison of story and picture will 
give an insight, not only into the methods used by 
the screen writer in adapting published stories, but 
into his methods while creating original stories. 
In writing “originals” for the screen, the story values 
that come through the imagination must be subjected 
to processes of translation into screenable action 
in much the same manner as if they were already 
printed in one or another of the fiction forms. The more 
nearly the screen writer has mastered his technique 
the more easily will he translate his ideas and story 
values into use for the camera; and the more the 
fiction writer has borrowed from screen technique 
in writing his short-story or novel, the easier will 
be the task of the screen writer in adapting the fiction 
to his own medium. 

The first point to be noted in the adaptation of 
“The Eagle’s Feather” is the different arrangement 
225 


226 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


of the material in regard to time. The short-story 
opens with Trent’s first interview with Delila. How 
Trent came, why he came, who he was, his previous 
meeting with Van Breuwen and Martha—all this is 
told bit by bit in retrospect, through information 
given directly by the author, through the thoughts 
of the principal character, or through dialogue. 
Also, much of it is vague and merely suggested. 
Miss Dunn changed the order of events to comply 
with photoplay needs, beginning with an introduction 
to the principal character and the locale. Trent, 
a returned soldier while drifting westward, is kicked 
off a freight train at a little siding. From this point 
the story unfolds in chronological order, each event 
being shown as it occurs, with no jumping ahead and 
no going back to explain what has happened before 
the present action. 

Quite a bit of new action was necessary in this 
early sequence—action hinted at in general terms 
in the short-story. For instance, the comedy char¬ 
acters of Pat, Olaf, and the little fat man are distinct 
creations of the screen writer. Also, the encounter be¬ 
tween Van Breuwen and Trent in the stage is worked 
out in original, definite detail that gives the spectators 
the exact nature of the quarrel. Note the introduc¬ 
tion of Martha, whose status at the ranch is estab¬ 
lished before the arrival of Trent. 

The second point to be given careful attention is 
that in the short-story very little plot action takes 
place from the time of Trent’s interview with Delila 
until the night of the big party celebrating the acqui¬ 
sition of Van Breuwen’s ranch. The conflict involving 
Trent, Van Breuwen, and Carey is handled by means 
of general statements like: “Against his rival in 
diplomacy, Jeff Carey, and against his rival in love, 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


227 


Pier Van Breuwen, Trent delved, doubled, writhed 
and struck, wrestler and pugilist by turns. Closer and 
closer his determined loyalty drew him to the eagle 
woman.” This is pure narrative, useful only as sugges¬ 
tion to the screen writer. The magazine version here 
I follows short-storv Technique, not only in that the 
treatment is purely narrative, but in that everything 
is subordinated to the big situation—the situation 
beginning with Careys false accusation against 
Trent. This accusation, with the events growing 
out of it, is the basic situation of the short-story. 
All that precedes is preparation. 

From the viewpoint of the screen, a big “hole” 
f existed between the opening of the story and the 
night of the party, a lack of material that would 
prove fatal in a picture. It was necessary for Miss 
Dunn to devise screenable action to portray the con¬ 
flict between Trent and the two antagonists, to create 
a series of situations that would lead logically up to 
the accusation of Trent. The bunk house fun, with 
Trent’s turning the tables on Carey; the meeting 
between Van Breuwen and Delila; the fire accidentally 
started by Van Breuwen and which he purposely 
neglects to put out—the race to put out the fire, 
and the byplay between Trent and Delila; the en¬ 
counter between Trent and Carey in which the 
latter is knocked unconscious by Carey’s horse; 
Delila’s ministering to Trent and her realization that 
she loves him; Van Breuwen’s attempt to ruin Delila 
by causing the stampede; Trent’s rescue of Delila 
when her horse is thrown ... all this is original 
with the screen writer. These incidents and situa¬ 
tions were necessary to develop the central line of 
conflict and to supply screenable action in place of 
the generalized action employed in the short-story. 




228 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


The third important fact to note in our comparison 
is that the fiction writer, in handling suspense, has 
followed screen technique very closely. Compari- 
tively few changes were necessary to adapt the story. 
This is a point to be stressed, as it illustrates one of 
the most striking tendencies of the modern short- 
story. 

Let us analyze the short-story from the beginning 
of the big situation—Carey’s accusation of Trent— 
with careful attention to the shifting of viewpoint 
and angle. 

When Carey tells Delila that he found the payroll 
under Trent’s bunk, note that the whole interview 
is told objectively. We are not informed in so many 
words that Delila suspects Carey of framing Trent, 
but we infer as much from her actions and her 
manner. The scenes of this interview in the photo¬ 
play follow almost exactly the scenes in the short- 
story. 

The scenes of the banquet, with minor changes, 
are identical in fiction story and screen story. Keep 
in mind that we are following the main line of action, 
which is building up suspense with respect to the 
happiness of Trent and Martha, the two most sym¬ 
pathetic characters. 

The meeting between Martha and Trent following 
the party, is told objectively in the short-story, and 
is practically the same as that in the screen story, 
with the exception that in the photoplay Martha 
tells Trent that Delila loves him. 

At this point the two stories begin to differ in 
treatment. In the magazine story, we get the 
progress of events from the angle of Martha. The 
reader stands with her out in the snow under the pine 
tree, hears the dim murmur of a hesitant voice as 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


229 


Trent tries to break the news gently to the eagle 
woman, hears a chair scrape, wonders at the abrupt 
silence, and sees Delila emerge from the house. The 
reader knows nothing of what takes place in the 
interview between Delila and Trent until the next 
scene between Delila and Martha, in which the in¬ 
formation is given through dialogue. Through her 
words to Martha, Delila reveals the deep emotions 
that have been released in her interview with Trent. 
On the screen this would have been ineffective. Pre¬ 
senting the actual interview between Trent and the 
eagle woman was the only way in which the screen 
writer could bring out Delila’s emotions with dra¬ 
matic force. 

The next scene (Martha, Trent and Delila) and 
the one following (Martha and Trent) are told 
objectively in the short-story, and are not basically 
changed in the photoplay. 

But we come now to a scene that deserves special 
attention, the one where Trent waits outside while 
Martha goes to answer the summons of the eagle 
woman. Again we stand in the storm, this time 
with Trent, ignorant of what is taking place within. 
But the screenwriter has not changed this material; 
she has not done what she did in a previous similar 
instance. We do not see the actual interview be¬ 
tween the eagle woman and Martha. Instead of 
following the typical method of her medium, Miss 
Dunn has employed the fiction method; that is to 
say, instead of letting us be present at the interview 
between Delila and Martha, in order to reveal to 
the audience the new menace that threatens the 
sympathetic characters, she conceals that menace 
until Trent comes to Delila after the fight in the 
bunk house. Let us consider the reason for such 



230 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


handling. The new menace to the happiness of 
Martha and Trent, in the shape of the storm and Van 
Breuwen, later becomes so serious that the suspense 
which might be aroused through revealing the menace 
earlier is not needed. The dramatic value of the 
surprise, when Delila tells Trent that she has sent 
Martha out into the terrible storm, outweighs the 
slight loss of suspense that might have been aroused. 

The scenes in the banquet hall, in which Delila 
sentences Trent to whipping, are handled much the 
same in short-story and photoplay. In the former 
we get a bit of subjective treatment in the bitter, 
cynical thoughts of Trent. 

When we come to the material dealing with the 
fight in the bunk house, we see that rather important 
changes have been made. In the short-story we 
get the preparations for the fight, but none of the 
actual fighting. In the photoplay we see the four 
fights on the screen. Here again we see a basic 
distinction between the two techniques. The fiction 
writer was subordinating a lesser thread of action to 
the main situation. It was desirable to punish 
Carey, but to give the details of the punishment 
would take from the value of the one big situation. 
The screen writer, building more elaborately to the 
climax, found excellent screen material in these 
fights, and used them to strengthen a thread of 
action which, while minor in character, was still im¬ 
portant. 

We see also, in this sequence, that the screen 
writer, instead of having Trent whip the truth 
from Carey, uses the Chinaman to exonerate Trent 
from the charge of stealing the payroll. The change 
was necessary to keep the full sympathy of the, 
audience for Trent. In the short-story the reader 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


231 


learns what took place during the fight through 
brief, laconic statements made by Trent to Delila. 
The reader has no emotional reaction to the fight 
except a feeling of satisfaction that justice has been 
done. But to present such action on the screen, 
with Trent using the quirt on Carey until the man 
confessed, carries an element of brutality that would 
not only take away sympathy for Trent, but would 
probably come under the ban of the censors. 

In the short-story, while the fighting is taking 
place, the reader remains with Delila in the house, 
experiencing her suffering, her inner conflict between 
her love and her trampled pride. The passage is 
handled subjectively. In the photoplay, we get 
flashes of Delila and her suffering, shown at intervals 
during the fighting. 

The interview between Trent and Delila, after the 
; fight, is, with the exceptions we have mentioned, 

r eated in the same manner in both stories. 

In the next sequence we see once more the typical 
short-story method and the typical screen method 
of handling suspense. In the short-story, after 
Trent rushes from the house to save Martha, Delila 
Istands beside the door gripping the knob. Suddenly 
'she orders Winger to hitch up the fastest team to 
the buggy. We do not know what her decision has 
jbeen or what she intends doing. We travel with her 
and Winger through the blinding storm, knowing 
only through suggestion the dangers that threaten 
iMartha, and ignorant of their real seriousness. Only 
when we look, with Delila, through Van Breuwen’s 
(window to see Trent bound and helpless and Martha 
at the mercy of the brute, is the menace revealed to 
jus. Here is suspense obtained through typical 
fiction methods. 


232 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


In the photoplay Trent leaves Delila and dashej 
away on his horse. The angle shifts and we se( 
Martha struggling in the snow drifts, stumbling 
along blinded by the stinging snow, and finally 
staggering exhausted to Van Breuwen’s door. W( 
see Van Breuwen gloatingly take her in his arms 
We see Trent arrive, see him knocked unconscious 
by Van Breuwen, and securely bound. Again the 
angle shifts. We see Delila * making her decisior 
and ordering the team. Here we find suspense 
handled by typical screen methods—revealing the 
exact seriousness of the menace. 

From this point on the two stories are handled 
in the same way. Observe that neither the readei 
of the magazine nor the spectator of the photoplay 
knows what Delila’s decision is or what she intends 
to do until the climax when she utters the surprising 
words: “Marry my niece to the man she has chosen/’ 
Immediately preceding this speech the suspense 
reaches its highest pitch. 

The conclusion or ending, of the short-story is 
handled objectively and is not materially different 
from that of the screen story. 

The student will be able to pick out many minor 
changes that have not been mentioned in this analy¬ 
sis. For instance, the gun in the hands of Delila 
when she forces Van Breuwen to act as witness to the 
marriage has been changed to a pipe in the pocket 
of the cowboy. The change can hardly be said tc 
add to the dramatic values of the story, for the reason 
that the incident of a pipe or finger held in the pocket 
to suggest a gun is terribly hackneyed. The chiel 
reason for the change is that the gun play would 
probably be objectionable to some of the many cen¬ 
sorship boards. Likewise, the marriage does not 


THE EAGLE’S FEATHER 


233 


ctually take place in the screen story. The in- 
erence that it does take place however, is made so 
trong that the omission helps rather than weakens 
he story. Motion picture audiences have seen the 
narriage ceremony performed so often upon the 
icreen, as the ending to the story, that it has grown 
ather trite. Most of these minor changes can be 
malyzed and accounted for by the student himself, 
ifter he has grounded himself thoroughly in the 
fundamentals. 





I 


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PRINTED IN U. S. A. 

BY MAC PRINTING COMPANY 
LOS ANGELES 


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